My Silhouette
by Anonymous by Preference
Summary: At the end of Leroux's novel, Erik returns to the Persian's flat for the last time. But instead of meeting his friend, he meets someone very unexpected, and unwelcome. This young thief, though heartless, may pave the way for a second chance for Erik and Christine. Or... does she have a heart? Erik/Christine? or Erik/OC?
1. Prologue

**No copyrights to anything, except my original characters. All the credits to this story belong to Gaston Leroux. Unlike other Phantom fanfiction I've done before, this one will more strictly adhere to the plot of Leroux's novel. But instead of ending like it did in the Persian's flat, where Erik says a final goodbye and ends the story, he does go. . . but doesn't meet the Persian. Enough said, I introduce now my antagonist. Or better put, catalyst. If I've sparked curiosity, please review and favorite or follow as much as possible. I will not update to any set day of week or with certain regularity, but it'll encourage me to keep writing. That's all I'll say. Thank you. Opinions always welcome.**

~Prologue~

All too often is evil portrayed as hideous, while the truth is really just the opposite. Deception never succeeds without a measure of charm. She'd never been short of that. But when everyone remembers her, they utter her name like it were the Devil's. She walked among good people, danced, drank, and laughed like them: the wolf in sheepskin. No one suspected.

Beneath the billowing skirts and the petticoat and hoops, she wore a pair of breeches. Instead of delicate dancing shoe that twirled lightly across the dance floors, leather boots. In one was stuck a pistol. It wouldn't have taken much to bring the guests to their knees. One quick sweep, and they'd all have made off with a bounty. Pirates and tyrants had done it for centuries, with names of black glory. The plan had been laid with little chance of failure, and very little risk. No guests attend a party baring arms. They had everything to win. There is no being so monstrous, or powerful than a beautiful woman.

Unfortunately for the de Chagnys, they were given no warning. They'd been doomed the day she first walked through the gate, sizing up the estate. Upon every belonging and priceless piece and irreplaceable valuable her eye fell, all was fair game. The hands wandered as far as the eyes. Alone and unwatched, she would smile to herself. No one could save them from her. She couldn't even save herself. Her history was one too long and too deep for reforming.

Do we hate her? She wasn't prone to fainting spells, or moved to tears easily. Given the choice, she pushed aside a cup of tea for a tumbler of beer. Black eyes were common. She did not sew or clean, or care that she couldn't. She never looked at children except with pity and scorn, apathetic to the allure the domestic life most women seek. Any decent, genteel woman could not look upon her without a thorough hatred. Men were easily ensnared by that long stare from a batting eye or the half-smirk that teased her lip and that soft, low laugh. It was more than simple talent to carry away men's hearts. Everything and everyone in her life: a means to an end. I tell the story of a heartless adventuress; a monster created by her own faults and the faults of others. But I tell her story with no bias.

Do we pity her? She did not want much. The one thing she desired most in the world was to live in peace. That dream, unfulfilled, led her down the paths of sin and evil. What made her known was not the infamy of her own deeds, but the entanglement of lives woven through another man. His worst crime, his face. The few who had seen it, and the many who heard rumors about his face, deemed it deserving of shunning, even death. He asked for nothing but to be loved for himself, but the heart didn't open its doors for anybody. No, he asked for the love of only one woman. All hopes of love rest with this one girl, a beauty, an angel. . . He never would've supposed someone else could do the impossible.

As much each one had against the other, they shared one thing in common. A solitary, self-exiled existence makes the soul the empty, undistinguishable silhouette. Without detail or identity. They walk about in the night, and fade into the mist, never to be missed when their presence is gone.


	2. Chapter One

**Thank you for coming back to give me a chance. I own nothing, of course. Thank you in advance for whatever reviews you leave. Someone asked whether my female character was a darker version of Christine. No, she isn't. I mean to stick as close to Gaston Leroux's rendition as possible, with exceptions to purposeful twists to the story.**

~Chapter One~

Her pockets could barely hold all. The faster she ran, the harder the pendants would beat against her chest, all tucked up inside the shirt. This, of course, was unusual, just as much as it was infuriating to be chased. In every direction, a thick fog stretched the length of the avenue. But it was impossible to feel its coolness. The exertion had worked up a feverish temperature. Houses were dark, asleep for several hours now. Wherever the light penetrate the fog, throwing circles of luminescence on the brick and cobblestone, the young woman kept a careful distance. Aside from her own desperate pants, the clamor of a mob grew in number and in proximity.

"This way!" shouted a voice somewhere behind. "Go down and we'll surround her!"

_Imbeciles! _she hissed under breath. It would take more than a few minutes to elude them in the long broadways, and by then, she could slip the juggernaut. So much fog and so many shadows, and a whole line of houses. There were plenty options. Along the left ran the tall iron fence of the Tuileries. One vigorous bound and leap, she swung her body over the sharp stakes. Coming down on the opposite side, some ornaments broke their chains and loose pearls tumbled from the left boot. It seemed nothing at first. And then, sharp, disappointing pain attacked the lower calf and heel. Despite years of experience, error of judgment had repaid her. Now wounded, every move was bound to become more and more desperate.

Nothing could be more desperate, though, than entering a dark house, with every possibility and disaster. _Is anyone home? awake? armed? _There was no time to weigh the matter.

The thought of her sister though, and her sweet face, propelled her. A soul that had looked up to her, from the day she'd been born, with angel eyes. And that smile no different. Anything she'd done herself could be forgiven, but this dearest soul could never know that her sister thrived in an underworld. So upon the first house in sight, she took the chance. No windows were left open. Breaking glass was never a good thing to do unless confident that no one was home. Fortunately, someone left an opening unlocked. Digging nails into the crack, she managed to swivel one side open.

Picking up her feet and over the pane, her thin leather soles encountered a thick, plush carpet. Crimson red in the dim light of the moon. But the first thing to alight her senses was a smell. Something curious and foreign flooded the nostrils. Of course, the whole room, a parlor, possessed that certain staleness that comes of negligence to dust and keeping all windows closed. It was a smell of spices. The owner, for a certainty, wasn't of French nationality. This house captured a country far from France, near the equator. Perhaps India or Africa. A couple urns decorated the top of the hearth, with one or two other rather eccentric looking trinkets. Expensive, valuable no doubt!

Wagging her head, the battered trespasser suppressed her worst enemy and its ravenous nature. For to her own, guilt-ridden soul, she made sure to define the delicate difference between need and greed. Bertrand would laugh to hear that, who could care less. Greed made a better master, a more successful contender. Never one to discourage her from following her own path. Everything she learned had come from him, a great master. Teacher had raised protégée to his own equal, and she'd always liked him for that. In truth, it didn't take much effort to corrupt someone who had nothing to lose.

Treading silent and favoring the right foot, she closed the unlocked window and drew the curtains shut. Holding her breath, she trained all hearing on the silence; no one snored or stirred anywhere. Perhaps the owner was from home. _Wishful thinking_, she reminded herself. But it would have been rather convenient to be allowed to sleep off exhaustion without the gendarmes on her trail.

Though a building of two storeys, this residence appeared to be no more than a flat. Toward the back, a lone and rather bare bedroom of groaning hinges revealed an unoccupied bed. All made up, the sheets crisp and unwrinkled. By its looks, an older person slept here. The dense quilt protected aged bodies who could not keep as warm. Fine fibers and beautiful craftsmanship rustled beneath her stroked hand. Tempting as it was, the young woman couldn't afford to err anymore tonight. _Perhaps wait a couple hours_, she told herself, _hide in the closet, supposing the owner returns late_.

A bell rang. Shaking the world like a flash of lightning, the doorbell sang. _Did they see me come? Have they found me so quick? _It rang three times, with an urgent violence to it. In the dark and confines of four walls, they wouldn't find her. But with horror she'd found herself dreadfully mistaken. Hearing the front door bang open and slam closed paralyzed her.

"Daroga!" A man's voice called out. "Daroga!"

Glancing in every corner, there was nothing furnishing the room but a highboy. Another foreign piece finely crafted by dark-skinned men in a country across the world. For a trespasser, however, it doomed her from space beneath the bed did not exist! The throat suddenly throbbed in pain, dry and constricting. The last option, another act of desperation, was under the covers. Throwing back the quilt, and slipping under, she threw herself beneath the mercy of the suffocating down. In three seconds, her body squirmed from its own heat, the racing rate of blood raising the heart to a boil. His footsteps came closer and closer to the door.

"Come out. We must talk," he demanded, sounding a little out of breath. The diamonds and pearls collapsed against her breast had grown clammy. Calloused hands clenched down on them, imprinting the skin of her palms. "Have no fear, Daroga," he assured. The door obviously open now. "I'm not here for vengeance. . . I only came to assure you that she's safe. And to say. . . you were right. . . You were right all along. . . I let her go, Daroga. . . And she's happy now. . . The boy's safe. I know that will make you happy. . . But it was with terrible pain I did, Daroga. For I loved her so. . . I still love her."

_Who is this man? _The words belonged to a stricken soul. He breathed awkwardly, speaking with little fluency to each sentence. And the choice of words caused her to cringe, but the voice itself set her blood in chills. Such a beautiful voice. It didn't take any explanation to paint the picture now.

". . . I almost changed my mind. Before letting her go I. . . I. . . wretched being as I am, I dared to kiss her. . . Daroga, I know you would think a fool of Erik, but she allowed it. . . She allowed me to kiss her. . . on her forehead. . . even leaning into it. . . Oh, not very much, but just a little. . . Just enough. . ."

Laying there, stealthily in silence, to remain there without stopping him, felt just as criminal as the jewels in her grasp. The lip curled inward at the sound of his voice breaking, the shuddering breaths, and the eventual sobs.

"She cried. . . and I cried. We cried together. . . And her tears. . . falling into my eyes, and. . . mingling with mine. Such a beautiful, gracious creature!" he cried. "You do not know, Daroga. . . To go your whole life without love. I've craved it all my life and now I'm dying of love of her. . . I've tasted all the happiness this world can offer. . . _I'm satisfied with that_."

_Oh, stop! Please, stop! I don't know who you are, but I can't bear anymore! _Soon enough, his wretchedness became contagious. Tears gathered in her own eyes. Warm and sticky, the tear left a path on down the bridge of the nose.

"And now. . . I've just come to say. . . that this is perhaps the last time we will meet again. Don't get up. I know you're probably ill. . ." He paused for many moments, composing himself. "Forgive Erik, Daroga, for all the trouble he's caused you. . . I can return in the morning so that we might settle. . . final matters."

After any strike of lightning comes the roar of thunder, surging through the ears and resonating off the heart. Someone else now had opened the front door, but the man in the doorway hadn't moved on. All sounds were muffled. In the background, the second newcomer called a name in the darkness. Erik. . . And worse, the man replied by calling the other's name. . . Daroga! Her eyes drooped in a defeated blink, sunken and suddenly ill. She could hear the seconds pass. Ten. With one trust, a flash of hand snapped the quilt back. What the woman hardly expected was the grasp of rope that circled round her neck. For a moment, it dug in threateningly.

"No please!" gasped she.

"_Who are you_?" muttered his menacing shadow. No groping and struggling could release or loosen the coil. "_What are you doing here_!"

"I'm sorry. . . I'm sorry."

"Erik, are you here?" called the second man. "Where are you?"

"Don't give me up, I beg you. I'll do anything," she repeated her plea, with less breath and rasping.

"It's too late for begging, _petit coquin_," he growled.

Hasty footsteps approached the room. The second man turned the knob to the gaslight at the center of the ceiling, throwing them all into full spectacle. Nothing hid now, every detail stark. The second man to enter, a dark-skinned Oriental, cried something in words of a foreign tongue. But her eyes were fascinated in terror with those of the man above her. His eyes aflame, an amber color but more golden than brown. From the forehead to lower lip and from ear to ear, a polished, black mask. It was the unexpected, and reacting out of panic, an impulsive, shrill scream pierced everyone's ears.

Before a full-fledged break of hysteria, though, a gloved hand descended on her mouth.

"Erik! Let the girl go! What on earth is going on!" demanded the foreigner.

"How should I know? I thought this was you in bed!" the masked man explained, thoroughly furious. "She was lying under the covers the whole time I've been here."

Surprise faded quickly, with both men narrowing eyes on the suspicious woman. Wide-eyed and panting, entirely vulnerable, with her neck bent against the Punjab lasso.

"Take your hand off her mouth," instructed the foreigner, whom was obeyed. Glancing over, her sights now took in a drably dressed figure of black eyes and creased features with a beard like wool and a wrapped head covering. "Who are you, mademoiselle?"

"I'm nobody," she replied sharply.

"Where are you from?"

"I am from nowhere."

"Why are you here in my house?"

"My business, monsieur."

It wasn't as if these interrogations and intimidating methods were never used before, but subjected to a most unfair position, half-choked, their captive was ready to seize in rage. The masked man, who'd she heard called Erik, pulled the knot a little tighter.

"You're somebody to us now," he nodded darkly. "What's this?" One hand snaked below the rope and tugged the strings of pearls and diamonds out from inside her shirt collar.

"So that's what's got the gendarmes so worked up tonight," the foreigner shook his head. "Running with a loot, are we?"

"What's it to you?" she spat.

"Got anymore on you?"

"I do. If you like, I'll give a portion of my lot for freedom."

"I'm not interested, and you're despicable!" That instant, the foreigner took the rope in hand and pulled it free of her neck. A brief freedom until he roughly took her by the shoulder. "Get up! You're going-"

"Please, no!"

"I'm calling them here this minute."

"Please, I can't!" Each man had a hand at both her elbows. With pitiful heels, she wouldn't be capable of resisting long. "Don't do it, I beg you! I can't afford prison. My family's depending on me. They'll starve without me!"

Perhaps it snapped something rather fragile. The masked man, with a rather crushing grip, removed her altogether from the hands of the foreigner. Forcefully backing her into the wall, looming within inches of her face, he sneered viscously.

"Give us a good reason," he taunted.

"I'd do the same for you." Without the least hesitation, she answered. Shuddering and gulping for breath, at the nearness of his mask and his eyes. In spite of herself, though, it didn't cause her eyes to fall or recoil back into a safer place, blocking him out. And in proof of sincerity, he felt her arms limp in his grasp. Her wrists, whitened from exertion, no longer put up resistance. The doorbell sang once more.

"Erik, you need to leave. I'm going to get the door," said the foreigner. It didn't produce any response. "Erik! Leave, you can't stay. Not if they want to search the house for her."

"Daroga, I think she's in prison already," he retorted. ". . . _Let's let her stay_."

"Not in my house!" he decried. The doorbell rang the second time. "It's bad enough I have to look out for you. I'm not housing some knave from the streets!"

"Why do you want me to stay?" she questioned. "You. . . don't intend to let me go, do you?"

". . . We'll see," Erik smiled, more in a vicious way.

"Erik," hissed the foreigner. "What are you thinking?"

"I think she'd be more dangerous otherwise. She's seen and heard too much."

**Well, now you can probably guess just what she is, and hope she will merge well with Leroux's brilliant cast. What do you think? Reviews will accelerate the rate of updating.**


	3. Chapter Two

**So far, these have been short chapters, but longer ones will come with the more updates. I didn't expect the responses I've gotten so far, thank you. I won't give away too much. With the next couple of chapters coming, her character will come more to light. If I make mistakes, I'm not offended when they're pointed out. If something doesn't sound right, grammar-wise or whatever, it's fixable.**

~Chapter Two~

At least, it wasn't around her neck. The masked man had taken his lasso, coiling it many times over around and between her wrists. The wide and thick back of the chair made it almost torture with the way the two strangers tied her hands behind. Her legs were left free; although, it wouldn't have made any difference. And the knot formed to keep her bound was one of those rare kinds she couldn't undo. As soon as they bound their prisoner, they'd both took to emptying her pockets and boots, making her entire night's work in vain. Every bangle, pendant, ring, and unset stone was laid out across the mahogany table.

The owner of the flat, the foreign man, scathed her with many a disapproving glance. The more jewels discovered from her person, the higher he counted, the grimmer the expression. "This is extraordinary," he said. Cool and collected, as resentful as she was grateful, the woman remained silent. Not a single smirk or scowl to their satisfaction. "How does a young woman like you resort to this? Or for that matter, how have you become so skilled at it?"

An annoyed batting of eyelashes moved to the twitch of her lip. "Just what one would expect from a gentleman. It's so inconceivable, is it, that a woman can be a talented thief? Women have always been the best thieves."

"This isn't something _anyone _should be proud of, mademoiselle," he emphasized.

"May I ask, M. Daroga," she smiled daringly, "why you insist on keeping your companion here _concealed _from the police?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me."

"It's not your business," he gritted between his teeth.

"What's the nationality of your name?"

"Daroga is not his name," answered the masked man. "Back in Persia, it was his rank: chief of police."

"Seems he's fallen far from his rank," the woman remarked.

"You haven't answered our questions," reminded the Persian. "I'm sure you have a name and origin. Let's hear about it."

"Frankly, I'm not disposed to that question."

The shrug began to infuriate him, while the other, as cool and discriminating as herself, observed. No expression to his face, or what little could be seen of his face. The longer the light shed upon it, she grew accustomed to the stark contrast of mask and face. As a few moments transpired from the outburst in the bed, his eyes no longer held that terrorizing glint. His rather emotional and heartbreaking confession even returned to her memory. Each side glance she chanced of him brought those tear-filled words back.

"You're beginning to get on my nerves," said the Persian.

"I think she knows that, Daroga," he replied, with a lazy roll of eyes.

"Erik, keeping her tonight was your idea, not mine. What did you expect?"

No reply.

"I am sorry I've inconvenienced you, monsieur," she admitted. "I'd thought this was an empty house. But my ankle was hurt, the gendarmes were catching up, and was pretty much at my end."

"It's not over yet, mademoiselle. I can always change my mind."

"What happens to my possessions?"

"They're not yours, so I'll see to it that they're turned over to the police. And then back to their rightful owners."

"Technically, if I may be technical, they do not have owners. They came from the unattended vault of a jeweler. I believe I have more entitlement to them than yourself."

"I'll do as I see fit. And I'm doing that with or without your permission, and with or without you attached to them. Be grateful for that much."

". . ."

"Why do you refuse giving us your name?"

"It's my name," she smiled, "and I'll give it to whomever I please."

"You afraid of exposure perhaps?"

"Something _we _have in common, obviously."

The man shook his head, sitting just perched on the edge of the dining table. "You have no idea what I've been through in these last twenty-four hours. I had hoped to come home to a quiet house, alone, and go to bed. You're about one smart remark away from being popped in the mouth."

"Then I shan't bother you any longer. If you turn me loose, you'll never see me again."

"You done anything worse than theft?"

"No."

"You better not be a liar."

"You're the judge. I cannot say anything in defense, can I?"

A hand lifted to his face, stroking down forehead, nose, and chin, extricating a long groan. "Erik. . . I'm exhausted. Please?"

"You want me to take the night watch?"

"I don't want her loose until morning; I hope I'm understood."

"Clearly."

To be left alone with a man might've frightened any other girl. Instead of twitching and thrashing, not one muscle stirred. This whole situation had been trained for, rehearsed many times through her mind. He held her gaze for a good time in his study, as a cat that bides his time upon the hole. Finally coming to his conclusions, he broke the silence.

"Foolish girl," he jeered.

"I must be. Of all the houses to seek refuge, I chose here," she agreed. A statement that greeted him with some surprise. Regardless, she didn't see any emotion cross the lips or lower half of his face. "I assume, by the mask, that you've something more to protect than I do."

"Learn to mind your own, mademoiselle," warned Erik. "Or don't your own affairs give you enough trouble?"

Without flinching, without holding back, the two were equals to the conversation. Hearing her reply was just as fascinating as it was trying to intimidate her. As difficult it proved to sit tied to a chair, she maintained it. A sort of guessing game evolved: wait upon mercy or try the ropes? The Roman in the coliseum wouldn't put up any less of a fight, though the death sentence be certain. However tired and sore in the ankle, the girl refused to indulge one yawn. Even to blink too much or glaze over, she refused to give away her weakness.

"It's late, isn't it?" he remarked wryly.

"I'm not tired," she denied.

"Funny thing, you not giving your name."

"Why do you say that?"

"Erik feels very much the same way."

"Do you now?"

"It seems every person you meet demands to know it immediately. What right is it of theirs?"

"Exactly."

"Why should it be any concern of theirs while we have our reasons?"

"Yes!"

"And half of all people you may tell your name won't even remember."

". . . Yes."

"Well, mademoiselle shouldn't have that problem. She makes too lasting an impression hiding in the bed of some stranger."

"Same could be said about a man who wears a mask," she rejoined, eyebrows raised. "If I were smart, I'd be wearing one myself. But when I sweat, it makes my face itch, and the thing begins to slip. It gets in the way. Have to be practical, you know."

"Unless one can learn to be quick, a mask would be practical."

A loud, amused laugh filled all the dining room. Some struck-giddy child that had lost strict composure was just the reaction. "Do continue, please," laughed the woman. "Your speculation is most useful."

Her notice, on this point, wasn't received as kindly. "Mademoiselle find it amusing?"

"Indeed. I'm listening to someone with experience."

". . ."

"Probably one more experienced than I," assumed she, batting eyelashes admiringly.

"To a degree."

". . . My name is Avril."

His turn came, to chuckle and feel amused. A dark, low resonance. "How's a girl like you get a name like that?"

"It's not a common name," she boasted. "And with great pride I wear it too. My two sisters have simple names, but my mother saw something more in me."

"You get the same effect putting veneer on wood," drawled Erik. "Doesn't change what it is: just tree bark with a shine. You're a thief and an amateur. Your coming here tonight, you admit, was an act of desperation. And judging by your surrender, this friendship you attempt to forge is a last resort for freedom. Allow Erik to explain himself, mademoiselle, that I did not spare you from the gendarmes out of sympathy. You lay in that bed and dishonestly listened to a conversation not addressed to you. It was despicable. . . No doubt, a method to your survival. Just what one would expect, for a common thief. . . driven by curiosity and thoughtless of consequence. . . as common and predictable as any woman."

"Would simple apologies make you overlook the offense?" she inquired, now flecked with irritation.

"Erik doesn't care about that. Is there anyone outside here that mademoiselle might enjoy repeating Erik's words or making trouble for him?"

"Why would I?"

". . . You don't work for anyone, do you?"

"Unless there's a reward for your arrest, I don't see why it's relevant. And even at that, I'm not a bounty hunter. All I deal in is jewels. Nothing more, nothing less. . ."

"Erik's 'friend' is very particular when it comes to matters of the law. He may seek you out in Paris if let go."

". . . Would you let me go?" And just for added measure: "Please? If you release me, you do more people than myself a great service. I have two sisters who depend on me for everything. Our living conditions are deplorable, and both our parents have abandoned all three of us-"

"Enough," Erik groaned. "Maybe it works on others, but not with Erik."

"If you haven't got mercy, I'll take whatever I can get. If you don't want to be known-"

"Known? No, to the world, I am supposed to be dead."

"Very well," she consented, nodding. "I promise you peace. For I only rob of the living."

As ghastly he appeared, death couldn't describe him. That long moment of unbroken silence, she was memorizing his face. Of course, it could never be forgotten, but the details that other's eyes shy away from captured all attention: the narrow shape of the face, the thick hairpiece, ears almost flat against the head, and the sharp jawbone with a swollen, purplish upper lip set atop an average pink. And between the forehead and upper lip, nothing showed through the black mask but a pair of gold-amber eyes. In them, the power and brilliance resembling suns. But he wasn't one who acclimated to the light, apparent by the pallid complexion. Some maybe could say his eyes glowed in the darkness. Without preconceptions and the usual horror, she noted rather how they illuminated by the smallest amount of light. In addition to the stark contrast of the black mask, they did cast a deceptive glow.

Nothing further to add, she observed the man rise slow and move behind her chair. The knot too impossible for her own hands came undone with a few simple tugs. What fingers brushed against her wrist felt abnormally long, almost skeletal. The leather covering both hands did not contain the chill, making the girl shiver. Taking a few seconds, she straightened her shirt and waistcoat, and bent down to pull the buckles tighter on her boots. With some time having passed, putting any weight on the injured ankle was barely endurable.

"Thank you for your hospitality," she retorted, limping closer to the doorway. "I doubt we shall meet again."

"It will not be a pleasure repeated."

"No need to worry. I will forget this night as soon as possible, just as you and your friend will as well. . ." Just as she left the doorway of the dining room, a small piece of the heart influenced her one sound foot to turn back. ". . . I didn't mean to hear any of that, what you said earlier. But I'm sorry for your heartbreak."

"Your pity is quite the compliment," Erik replied sarcastically. Unwilling to tolerate his guest longer than necessary, he took her by the arm in cold assistance. Instead of heading for the front door, he veered her back the way she came: through the parlor and to the open window. Odd in of itself, though he wasn't questioned. "Here." With a brusque nudge in the arm, he passed her the overstuffed purse. Just about everything could be accounted for; the necklaces she'd worn, that could not fit, placed in her other hand. A gesture so astonishing her mouth nearly gaped.

"If you leave without them, then there'll be some chance of you coming back for them."

"Really?" she muttered. "Just like that?"

"Mademoiselle may meet her judgment one day, but it won't be from me."

"T-thank you. . . You're very obliging."

"Now be on your way." This baffling specimen blended the gentleman with the villain. An odd smile quirked her lip at one side, as she looked into his face once more. Standing before each other, the awkward difference in heights were leveled. Her lack of stature didn't compromise that arrogant facet.

"What a little fool she was," she chuckled, a brow raised, "to throw you back to the sea."

One foot rose up to the window pane, but the surprise of his hand, gripping the collar of her shirt, practically sent her crashing back inward. At least, she caught herself and used his shoulder to regain balance.

"Who are you to speak?" he breathed. So close -both their faces- they breathed each other's own exhales. "No cat from the gutter judges my angel. Be gone with you!"

**You think Erik was merciful? Did she get what she deserved? Of course not. I hope also, with the next updates, that all you readers will come to have strong feelings for her. She is indeed, no Christine. . . Black ribbon roses to reviewers;)**


	4. Chapter Three

**Call this a profile of my silhouette. Thank you everyone who's been reviewing. Usually, I don't get that much attention per chapter. Make any remarks you want, and if it's advise, it may help. If there's something you'd like to see, suggest it. I may use it. It may be better than my ideas. I'd especially love to hear your opinion of this OC. . . and all the people around her;) Enjoy:)**

~Chapter Three~

Walking the streets she finally belonged, no heads turned at the familiar face of Avril. And the faces of these filthy streets and slums hadn't changed either. They knew the young woman quite well, who never wore a skirt and always shadowed her face with a large-brimmed hat. Of course, the head and face of anybody was covered in some way. Scoundrels, fugitives, refugees, debtors - men and women of all ages landed here after the world had spit them out. Avril did her best to keep eyes low, passing all the old places. Some shops had gone out of business, while some remained. Those shop owners who had endured were marred by broken windows and debt-ridden. Every single tavern and burlesque house succeeded, never closing their doors. Stands, tents, and carts selling any food item had continued to be erected or pushed through the many years she'd been away. The rest of society had overlooked their hungry, ravished end of the city. No improvements had been attempted.

The closer she came to home, the colder the air. The white sky and morning fog hanging low above the streets had the feel of a day in December. It was a brick building, weather-beaten and crumbling on the roof. The door knocker had fallen off, and the bottom of their front door allowed heat inside to escape. A tattered, rain-soaked notice of back rent due still clung by a nail. It ended up torn off the door and trampled underfoot as she entered. Like the outside, brick had been laid in all the walls. The rooms generally barren of furniture. Immediately, the scent of smoke, coffee, and cornmeal pervaded. At their table, her table, a sad, wide-eyed family of four. Large, slender mouths with bruised lips and sickly thin hovered over plates. On each plate, a small helping of eggs and crumbly bread.

"Oh, Avril! You're home!" cried her sister. Bursting from the kitchen, covered in flour, Avril was instantly smothered. "What a surprise; we hadn't expected you until-"

"Melicent, how many times do I have to tell you?" snapped Avril, lips pursed in a snarl. "I don't like you feeding strangers with our own food!"

"They're not strangers, of course not. The Traniers are new to the neighborhood, and just need a little help. I haven't been feeding them every day-"

"I should hope not. We're not a charitable institution. . . Where is Estelle?"

"Out walking, I suppose. She hasn't been home for a couple hours now," she answered worriedly. "But every time I send out to find her, she always ends up right back home."

"I'll talk with her about that later. . . Well, have you at least saved some eggs for me?"

"Come right over! I'll pull a chair up to the stove so you can warm up."

For seventeen years, this creature behaved as nervous and sweetly as an old maid. Those to see the two sisters would hardly believe they came of the same mother. There was no evil or thoroughly wicked person on the face of the earth, simply misunderstood. Money meant nothing. The heart opened to anyone with a tear-streaked face and empty stomach, much to her sister's aggravation. People endeared her within half an hour of acquaintance, anyone that smiled and spoke in a pleasing way. On every occasion Avril was summoned away from home, she could only hope rather than trust Melicent with the family's well-being.

"My goodness, Avril! How did you hurt yourself?"

"I'm not hurt."

"You're limping," gasped Melicent.

"Calm down. I'm not going to die," sighed Avril, wriggling herself from her assisting arms.

"How did you hurt yourself?"

"I tripped while getting off the train," she lied.

"Well, did you have a good journey at least? How is Miss Lamont down in Monte Carlo? Is she feeling any better? Did you get to meet her brother?" The woman in question, invented. The company and the brother fondly referred to was no more than a clever fancy. The journey itself, while real, didn't involve the same people. Avril couldn't trust giving any details involving the real people known and seen there, her victims. If she didn't hurry to divert the subject, Melicent was always quick to make inquiries about her travels.

"Just dish me a hot plate and a hot cup of coffee, and I'll be fine. . . So, any news while I've been gone?"

"Nothing extraordinary," Melicent replied, shaking her head. "Oh, Maman called on us the day before yesterday."

"Really? She called?" Avril's brow furrowed in astonishment.

"Well, she sent her card."

"Oh. . . Well, no surprise there," she mumbled, sinking back into the chair. The injured foot perched on the edge of the stove, right beside a burning log.

"And Bertrand. He called yesterday."

"Did he?"

"Yes, inquiring about when you'd come home. I told him we didn't expect you until tomorrow, but if you did happen to come home early, you'd be able to meet him at the Café de l'Opera." To her sister, the café implicated a bright, airy atmosphere with tea and pastries in the early afternoon. But by their history, designating the said café as a meeting place was a rather different message. This 'café' had been a frequent haunt, known for its dark and whispered atmosphere.

"Very well," nodded Avril, grinning. "After I've had a good nap, I'll be off. It didn't sound urgent, did it?"

"No, not from what I understood. . . Avril, beg your pardon for asking this, if I pry, but does it seem that Bertrand likes you very much?"

This timidity almost caused her to roar aloud with laughter. "Are you so concerned?" sniggered Avril. "Funny to think that you're the little sister here. Why the puppy face?"

"Well, you and Bertrand have known each other for a long time. And he's very friendly. And he does. . . seem to be keenly aware of our family's affairs, especially the finances."

"He always has," Avril replied smoothly. "Melicent, he's known me since I was fifteen. And little has changed in the course of time. He knows me and I know him. We're not one of those Romeo and Juliet idiots."

"Oh, Avril, do be serious." She tried to laugh, but incapable of it. "Are you sure? B-because. . . I wouldn't think it all that bad. Wouldn't you be happy if you met someone you truly loved? and would love you?"

"If you know me at all, Melicent," her sister shrugged, "you'd know I am incapable of being loved."

"That can't be true!"

"And you have to love to be loved in return. I don't love people."

"Oh no?" sighed Melicent. Then a smile spread her pink cheek. "What about me? You love me, don't you?"

"You're a darling, dearest. No one could possibly not love you."

"And Estelle?"

"Estelle is as lovable as a baby bird with its mouth open. I'm not your fair, delicate flower, and I cannot be forced to submit to slavery. That's what becomes of all women who fall in love, slavery. Houses to keep, cooking dinners, mending linens, childbirth and babies, and husbands who can never be pleased, with little time for oneself. It's deadly."

"Well, I hope you will one day. You do so much for us, and I want to see all your hard work rewarded somehow. What better way than meeting a man who will love you for it?"

This speech had been repeated several times and more for some years. With every occasion, it only grated and rubbed the nerves more raw. If there was anything worse to Avril than imprisonment or torture, it was this. The devotion, the unwavering loyalty, the shrine on which dear Melicent held her. . . _Her_.

"Estelle!" cried Avril, staggering upright from her chair. That carefree expression that walked in the kitchen died away instantly. "Where have you been?"

"Oh, beg your pardon, _maman_. Didn't know you were expecting me home today," retorted the girl. "Sorry I took so long, Melli. There was such a line at the grocers, and then the girls kept me longer to tell me about-"

"Who cares about that!" snapped Avril. "And where did you get those?"

"Get what?"

"Those gloves. _Where did you get them_?"

Being surprised, it wasn't all too easy to hide them, wrapping her hands into her shawl. "My old gloves wore out, Avril," she explained, in a tone of justification. "It was necessary."

"Those wool ones? Yes, I expected you to replace them, not to move up. Those are evening gloves."

"They serve the same purpose."

"But they cost more; that's my money, Estelle!"

"Well, I'm not going to settle to dressing like a coal miner!"

"You hush your mouth, Estelle," Melicent intercepted. "Now, Avril is right. Next time, you consult with us before buying anything. It's not fair to be using her money so liberally."

"When is she ever here? If Avril always had her way here, we'd be eating porridge once a day and wearing the same rags year after year. How many times do you eat a day?" she sneered. "What do you eat that keeps your ribs from showing?"

"I don't see any of yours," replied Avril, arms crossed. "And for being in want, there's no tears in the skirt seams or holes as far as I can see."

"Oh, please! No more," begged Melicent. "Estelle, why can't you just be a little more sensible and not-"

"Why do you defend her, Melicent? Why am I always the one to blame?"

"Because you're the cause of irritation," spouted Avril. "Alright, I've had enough rest. I think I'll be going now. As soon as those beggars are done eating, send them out, Melicent. And then you go lay down; you look done in. When I get back," turning to Estelle, "you better have these dishes done and this kitchen cleaned. Anymore lip from you, I'll send you out to beg for a new home."

The hair whipped against her back with each stride. Leaving behind a hot plate, her stomach continued to crave in loud moans. The monotone clatter and noise of the street proving more peaceful than her own home. Though with many hours to wait, the wait would be worth the solitude. Neither of them could afford to meet with each other by daylight.

* * *

As he was a frequent customer, the barmaids made sure to always keep their table clear after nine o'clock in the evening. And none of them dared argue with any of the gendarmes. The candles burned dimly. His voice, consistently low, discouraged outsiders. But his manners, always that of a gentleman. If he'd not been in the black uniform, anybody could assume him of the gentlemanly class. But here, in this tavern, the comings and goings of people were not spoken beyond the four walls of the establishment. Here, none of his comrades would see him.

Long sideburns tapered the edge of his face, touching the jaw line, and above the lip bowed a fashionably trim mustache. Dark of features. A bit tan of the skin, acquired by many hours walking in sunlight without protection. Completing him altogether, all the necessary cheekbones, dimples, arched brows, simpers, broad-shouldered figure, and muscle were granted. His unknown parents had given a generous inheritance in looks. The rest had been self-achieved.

A full decanter sat untouched in the center of the table. Two glasses yet to be filled beside it. The attendants in passing didn't linger too long to be engaged in conversation, nor pry. Even those at surroundings tables behaved a little better than usual. Solid black, badges, with a hat and whistle round the neck bode nothing well for the no-goods that crossed him. These faces, suddenly drawn and somber, provoked a silent laughter.

As she always did, she arrived early, a quality that had quickly earned his respect in the past. Her appearance hardly ever changed. In exception for the hair, long lashes, and layered bosom, she passed for a boy; when she wished to, all such things could be disguised. The lips curved faintly, the way she did in possession of a secret. With the gentle, silent tread of a lady, she swaggered the length of the room, refusing to be impeded by injury. And the pain, hot as a coal and as gripping as a noose.

"Well done," he greeted her. Rising from the booth, a gloved hand took her hand. Regardless of the dry skin, he placed his lips to the back of it. Customary, though a little more than forthcoming for a casual friend. "So what happened last night?"

"My bad," shrugged Avril, slipping into the opposite side. "All the doors were locked; had to break a window to get out."

"You caused quite a stir. I wouldn't have said anything, but that one woman started screaming for me."

"I know, I know."

"Playing that game in your hometown is a risky business. If it weren't for me, you'd have been caught for sure."

"You flatter yourself." Her eyes rolled as she helped herself to a glass. "I've been caught in much more desperate situations. Believe me. Remember the ambassador's ball in Berlin?"

"That was a complicated process of high risk, Avril. I give you credit for _that_. It's more embarrassing if you were to be arrested for something as simple as breaking and entering. I'd expect that from Gaspar maybe, but not you."

"Am I not allowed to have my mistakes?" she sighed.

"Not on my watch," he smirked. "Alright, let's see how well you did."

Beneath the table, she stretched the injured leg to the cushion of the opposite seat. Deftly, he reached a hand into the boot, pulling the small purse stuffed between the leather and leg. Several thousands' worth in francs clinked and rustled between his gloved palm. It could've been worse. At least, she returned with her whole loot, which seemed to please.

"Very good," he complimented. "Not bad for a last minute score."

"I want a fifty percent share on this one," demanded Avril, still glowing in a smile.

"Why? Because you did all the heavy lifting on this one? And I, nothing?"

"Why not? It was my neck risked for them."

". . . Very well. But next time, don't be so shoddy."

"Your overwhelming concern is heartwarming."

With the purse safe inside the pocket of his coat, he took the other glass, serving himself a copious portion.

"How did you get the limp?" Knowing her, the rate of injury usually stayed minimal. Studying her closer in the candlelight, a color caught his eye. A ring of purple that wrapped the whole length of her neck forced a hard swallow. "And where the devil did you get a bruise like that?"

"What bruise?" she puzzled.

"Around your neck? Looks like someone tried to strangle you."

"Oh, that!" she gasped, paling. "I. . . Well, I ducked into a house last night while the rest of your squadron were chasing me. I thought I was alone."

"You did what?"

". . ."

"You broke into someone's house to hide, and someone was there?"

"I was hiding when the owner returned. Please, spare me the lecture, Bertrand. I know it was stupid, but I didn't give him my name." A half-truth, just the same as a full lie, came all too natural. "It's not like we lost anything, except a little time. . . Maybe a little dignity."

"Did he catch you?"

"He bound me, and threatened to call the policemen outside. They rang the doorbell, but no one answered."

The man's eyes fell shut, as if pained. And the head shook disapprovingly. His breaths grew more short and curt as he reached for his box of matches and a cigarette inside the coat.

"Sometimes you're as reckless as Gaspar, my dear. At least," he puffed, "I don't have to spend money bailing you out. So how, or why exactly, did your host find it in his heart to spare you?"

"Who knows," she shrugged. Neither man she wished to recount, and especially the acquaintance of the masked man, she preferred kept to herself. For just as infuriating and ungentlemanly he treated her in her dismissal, he had struck her rather curiously. On one hand, a connection with the police served an advantage, while on the other, it made her apprehensive. Already a suspicious notion had entered the man's head, which showed in his leering countenance.

"Perhaps you're a flirt," he guessed.

"Perhaps?" laughed Avril. "You don't know that by now? Of all women who've ever lived, I doubt any woman's ever been entertained by as many suitors and proposals as I have in a lifetime."

"And having not lived half yours either. How many of them have you loved?"

"None, I'm happy to say."

"Little Delilah," he mumbled. "But that's your strength. That's just what makes you the most reliable and trustworthy of all."

The eyes dipped in acknowledgement of said compliment. Yet, it was never made without an implication. "I suppose next you'll tell me what a winning, beautiful creature I am, and I am perfect. . . perfect for the next job. Am I right?"

"You're mistaken in all respects, except one. Yes," he said, flicking a few ashes onto the tray, "I've found you another job. I was going to wait until the others came, and you know how I loathe to repeat myself."

"Oh, please, please?" Avril teased. "Just this one exception? Can you at least give me a hint? What is it: the Luxembourg palace? Or shall we dare take the imperial Versailles?"

"There's nothing for us in those places. King's houses are all museums these days, and the glory is all dusty and heavily guarded. No, my sights are a little more domestic." With the rise and the approach of the subject, a change came into his voice. A quiet excitement, with its own special smile. Avril returned him an equal expression, sensing the invigoration, the danger. "Have you been following the papers here?"

"No," she shook her head, a little deflated. "What about?"

"Ever heard of the de Chagny family?"

"Maybe once or twice. Aristocracy, I presume?"

"They were two brothers. The elder brother has recently died, and the younger has just announced an engagement. Apparently, the girl comes of no highborn family and with no money. It's been quite a scandal."

"Has he been disinherited?"

"No. He was originally intending to elope with this girl. Some chorus girl or dancer from the Opera Garnier theater. The elder brother had opposed the match. Now that they've no more barriers, he's publicizing his engagement and making everything official. Including an engagement ball, the night before the wedding."

"Sounds a bit rushed, doesn't it? Why not just wait until the day of the wedding to go through with it?"

"Because there's not going to be a wedding reception. At least, they won't be staying long enough to make a real presence at the gathering afterwards. Supposedly, the young man has a rival, and he's rather anxious to be getting his new bride out of town."

"Undoubtedly, she's a theater girl, isn't she? They're a funny lot. Men are easily enamored by the entertainment."

"Should've been a career for you if you weren't a thief."

"So what is it about the de Chagny family in particular?" delved Avril.

"This family's vault, roughly calculating, ranges anywhere between three and seven million francs. Some of these jewels belonged to aristocracy that survived the Reign of Terror. Back then, you know, finery was worth a lot more than it is today. But in this collection, there's a necklace with a 400-carat sapphire. That's the pendant, but the whole string, with a bunch of smaller ones puts it above all others. Flawless setting. This thing entered the family towards the end of the last century, traveling all the way from Madagascar. This one piece alone, on the market, would peak at about three hundred thousand."

"Does it have a name?"

"Due to its shape, and the full array of like-shaped pendants, it's been called Angel's Tears."

"Fancy that. And how is it such intimate knowledge has come into your possession?"

"Some nobody had the presumption to try and be its owners decades ago. The whole ordeal had to be documented like everything else. Public record," he shrugged.

"You policemen are capable of anything," flattered Avril.

"A little will and authority will get you anything."

"Sounds all too good to be true," she sighed, pondering over the last swallow, reaching for another serving full. "Sounds like you've found our final win."

". . ."

"Is it?"

Those ink eyes twinkled. "That's because it is," he whispered, smiling.

"I knew it!" she breathed. "At last, the final job, the very last, the great loot!" At this rise of enthusiasm, a laugh curdled deep in his throat.

"It'll be the end and the beginning. For every one of us."

"So all those boxes in the bank, all the contents will go?"

"All of it. And I've divided up all our shares-"

"Divided?"

"Yes, of course," he chuckled. "I divided it all. . . all according to our labor and profit. What's that face? Did you think I was going to cheat you?"

A sulk replaced the original beam that lit her face, souring into a scowl of cheated pride. "Well, when you talk about division, I thought you meant dividing it equally. And if you dare think for one moment that I'll have all my hours of dangerous schemes and planning thrown to dogs, it better be a joke." She had not even finished before the words consumed him heartily: lungs, stomach, and heart.

"Oh, my sad little silhouette!" It hit so hard to make him cough a little. "Your ancestors must've been pirates. Calm yourself, Avril. I'm paying your associates what they earn, and the same to you. You'll all get what you deserve. I just have them under the impression that all the assets will be divided the other way."

"Humph. Then why should I believe a word you say?"

"I _do not _deceive who I _cannot _deceive."

"That's the worst lie yet," she jeered. "So, what do we do after that? I don't suppose we'll be staying in Paris long after our raid. Will you be announcing your retirement to the constable soon?"

"Doesn't matter what I do; I won't be gone long before they start to think the timing was coincidence. But we'll have to be out of town that same night. Same for Vérène and Gaspar."

"What will happen to us, just curious? You know," her voice evened out, sobering, "we've all been at this business of ours for so long."

"Yes."

"Are we to go our separate ways from that night forward?"

"We could. . ."

"I suppose it depends on them."

". . . Yes," he purred, thought in his eyes. "What will you do?"

"I'll buy what I've wanted for many years. A new life for Melicent and Estelle, and myself if I can afford to," she smirked.

"I won't lie, Avril. I know you love your sisters - for what reason, I'll never know - but that's not the kind of life for you. They're just a couple leeches. And trying to keep up the honorable façade will wear you down. The humdrum existence of 'respectable' riches will drive a cleverer wit like you beyond your sanity."

"Then you do not know me. For I will enjoy my new life immensely. And I do not intend to share that luxury with anyone. Melicent and Estelle may stay with me or go; it's their choice."

"And not mind the solitude either?"

"Solitude cannot steal from me. In fact, it should be my proverb."

Few individuals could say they knew Avril so thoroughly as Bertrand Boldvieu. Of course, the man was known to the public as Boldvieu, but a man of other names and other lives attached. At fifteen, the girl he took pity on and took under his wing earned his pride. Ever since, he'd waited and watched and taught the ways of the world. In that amount of time, two people do not simply remain indifferent. Company grows on one. Her patterns, routines, her likes and dislikes, her moods, the expressions, the varying tones of voice, the color of her eyes, the shape of her lips: every detail was memorized. Nothing amused him like this particular cocky, sideways smile. When she would think to herself 'I know all,' he unearthed her true naiveté.

"So sorry we're late. Did we miss anything?" Dispelling an exaggerated sigh, Vérène settled herself into the booth alongside him. Gaspar moved into his seat with a bit of a flop, and forced Avril to slide on further down. Happily, the two accomplice remained blissfully ignorant, and seemingly without suspicion of the conversation that just transpired. Both immediately ordered for drinks, and Vérène helped herself to his matchbox. Those claws, clicking and clapping closed his box, irritated him to no end.

"So, have you told her yet about the de Chagny's ball?" asked Vérène, turning a leer towards him.

"She's informed and up to the task," declared Bertrand. "She can do anything."

"What I don't understand is why you couldn't have simply used me," said Gaspar, venting his dejection. "It would be safest. She actually knows some of the members of nobility, while I don't."

"Sorry, Gaspar, this will take a little more than skill," replied Avril. "_And class_. Admit it, you can't dance a waltz if it meant your life."

"Well, you know," drawled Vérène, who looked her straight in the eye, "you do have to be someone to merit an invitation."

"I'll invent my history, as I always do."

"But you're not going to pull it off as some foreign marquis' daughter," she sniggered. "_'Breeding, brains, and beauty.' _You've got to have them all. And you don't come close to either three."

"Alright, let's not make a fuss about that," Bertrand interrupted. "We'll give you a name and a history to present to the vicomte. If we try to make you someone of high status, you're bound to be more noticed and investigated. So we're aiming for you to be an inferior, somebody insignificant to society."

"What are you talking about?" Avril shook her head confused. ". . . How are you proposing I get myself invited to the Chagny's engagement ball as some commoner?"

Vérène laughed. "Show her the advertisement, Bertrand dear," she said, nudging him. "We're sending you in to play housemaid."

"Lady's maid, actually," corrected Gaspar. "There is a difference."

As Bertrand handed Avril the section of the paper, and hearing their implications, it was felt with the effect of a slap in the face. Indeed, the clipping asked for a lady's maid. Experience preferable but unimportant. No salary posted. And the position required her to start immediately. Of all things, of all the people she'd become through her own talents. . .

"This is the best I can do?" Her teeth gritted, though her lip still curved in a smile. Indignity flushed her cheeks. "Bertrand, I can't be a housemaid."

"You're a lady's maid," repeated Gaspar. "The lady's maid is like the right-hand of the mistress. In the social setting, you're practically just one step beneath the lady. That means, unlike the other housemaids, you'll actually be given an invitation for the engagement ball."

"But a maid? Bertrand, in St. Petersburg, I conned my way into the Italian embassy as the Contessa Allegra di Rainaldi. I perfected my accent in two months, and learned enough language for more than decent conversation within. Are you saying the only way I can infiltrate this gaudy champagne revelry is by being a lady's maid to a promoted chorus girl?"

"What's the matter? Too beneath your dignity?" smirked Vérène, her nails tapping a 4/4 rhythm. "Didn't I tell you, Bertrand? We need wit as well as a little fortitude. If we have to do without breeding, your cuckoo should at least have brains and beauty."

"I suppose that is why he asked me to take the part. Brains _and _beauty," replied Avril.

"Will you do it or not, Avril?" demanded Bertrand.

"Of course, I'll do it." The eyelashes fluttered with the rolled eyes. "Who else could?"

"Well, this will be a unique challenge. You have nearly two weeks between now and the engagement ball. You've got to be able to stay on there for that long without your identity being compromised."

"Yes, as always."

"And for one, none of us know where the vault is in the house. So you'll have to know every room, every inch of that house before that night. And you need to know where he keeps the key to it. When it comes the hour, we'll all be on our toes."

"What's the hurry at all?" shrugged Gaspar. "If we tie up the men and close the women up in one room, what's the danger?"

"Because everything and anything is possible," said Vérène. "Don't be such a dolt. That's what lands you in the prison cell, where you've already been three times."

"Avril," Bertrand called her back, "we're counting on you. We do this right, this will be the end of your miserable life."

"You need not remind me," she shook her head, a little disappointed in their doubt. "I've dreamed of it all my life. And I won't fail you anymore than I would fail myself."

"That's why we have such faith in you," said Vérène. "We'd be lost without your dreams."

For all the years she'd known Bertrand, Avril's notice always caught those subtle nudges in the elbow, those low and drooping lashes batting, those little laughs, little jokes and veiled insults about her, and how she wore her perfume strongest in his company. The woman had not been without her talent for robbery, for distraction. But their equality had done nothing but give wood for fire to burn. Also in view of the age difference -twenty-one and thirty-three- the feeling was pure contempt. For the woman never offered any compliment, or insult for that matter, without a puff of smoke directly into the face.


	5. Chapter Four

**I hope that this is still continuing to hold interest. So you've probably deduced from the last chapter that my protagonist is really an antagonist. She is no angel, and she doesn't deserve a second thought. Of course, I did it on purpose. I'd like to create someone just as unlovable and unforgiveable as the masked man himself posed in the book. If you're wondering about the choice of name, by the way, Avril in the French name meanings dictionary means for some reason, 'to open.' A little ironic, I guess. **

~Chapter Four~

To make a respectable appearance, she brought a trunk and dressed appropriately while riding the stagecoach. It dropped her at the start of the drive. For along the road, the thick-bodied and dense foliage of the trees blocked all view of the château. Even the drive itself stretched long and far through. Birds, in every tree, seemed to sing to their visitor. Sunlight trickled through each branch, and the evaporating mist made the air in the light visible. The fragrance of pollen wrinkled her nose and brought about a sneeze or two. The bees that hummed as they flew by her ears, making her swat them away. _Why does the coming of spring make people happy? _mused Avril.

A five-minute walk brought her to her destination. Just as expected: a hundred windows, probably a hundred rooms, a fountain of stone angels, lush trellises growing up the walls, the accented alcoves, and a seven-foot tall door. A marvel of baroque architecture with its white walls and blue dome roof. Not a single blade of dead grass in any direction. _And to think only one man lives here, him and one family of a few individuals. Most of these rooms are unoccupied. _The thought of them and the large beds and clean sheets and breakfast trays being run up by servants disgusted her. How many women in the world could look at this array of stone, lawn, and groves, and not say the love of the man is worth more than all this?

She nearly jumped at the distant sound of gunfire. But it was one of a hunting rifle, coming from down the hill far to the north. The sound of game birds and more firing followed, doing nothing for her mood. Robbed of pride, it made a smile nearly impossible, but Avril proceeded toward the door. A heavy-looking barrier of oak, and its doorbell loud enough to signal ships into a harbor. The butler kept her waiting for two minutes before answering. With the figure of a cow and the face of a bulldog, his naturally grim face soured all the more at the sight of her.

"Are you looking for the servants' entrance, mademoiselle?" he presumed, a nasally voice. "You're supposed to go round the back."

"I've come here for an interview with the master," explained Avril. "Is he home?"

"Doesn't matter. You're supposed to go through the back entrance. The front door is for the master's invited visitors."

Her tongue moved into the side of her cheek. The eyes in slits. "Well, I'll be sure to remember that. But as I am here, may I be shown in?"

"If you wish to be considered, mademoiselle, you will not question my authority-"

"Goyette?" A female voice rang from behind him. Glancing over that short shoulder, it was a young woman at the top of the staircase. Over all friendly of looks. "Is it anyone we know?"

"No, mademoiselle," he replied, coldly respectful in address. "This woman is here wishing to see the master for an interview."

"Oh, the advertisement!" she guessed. "Please, do let her in, Goyette," she entreated him.

Passing by the ugly man's right shoulder, a triumphant smirk and smug eye crossed her features. For hours into the night, this single woman had become quite the intriguing study for Avril. Of course, she'd known many women: the naïve and the knowledgeable, the dim-witted and the clever, the baby-face and the spinster, the sweet and the spoiled. All were very much the same, those bred in the high classes. She would stand out. For Christine Daaé had not the education or background to make her one of any defined category. But as far as her own personal expectations, she fit everything Avril had imagined.

Polite greetings. Shy smiles, with a clueless, over-the-head look in the eyes. This girl hardly knew what she was doing in the house any more than a stranger. A wealth of gold locks fell to about her middle back. A tiny neck. And like common Swedes, the blond came with clear blue eyes. Instead of a flashy flutter, the eyelashes -long and thick- seemed to simper like two additional smiles. Naturally fair with a pink tinge, a type of beauty typical of men to fall for, like the vicomte. Slender waist. Quiet. Without an air.

Miss Daaé led her to a room, inviting her to an open seat on a red velvet divan. Though knowing little about the inside of a grand house with the work of the servants, this was certainly unprofessional of what a mistress of the house would do. But it was all to meet her approval. She could sense that this approval would be readily given, but the trick of it was making this woman feel comfortable and at ease. Her hands fidgeted, in a childish, irksome sort of way.

"It was very kind of you to come all this way," began Christine nervously. "You see, I've never had a lady's maid before; so all this is new to me, you see."

"I understand," smiled Avril. "My name is Danièle Perrin. Are you just newly married?"

"Engaged," Christine cleared her throat. "I've had some unexpected circumstances that have brought me here. Some people may consider this all unrespectable, but-"

"Don't explain. I understand. I'm actually acquainted with some of your story, and your brief career at the Opera Garnier."

"Yes. Thank you," she sighed, relieved. "So you must also be aware that I do not come of any great family. I'm not used to people waiting on my hand and foot; it feels awkward enough that my fiancé wants me to have a maid specially for my own needs. But if it's what all ladies are supposed to have, I suppose I must hire one. I'm not experienced, and I don't expect my maid to know everything there is about waiting on-"

"Of course, you need someone whom you'll be comfortable attending to you," Avril sympathized. "I do not have much work experience myself. I have a few references from former employers in Normandy, but never have I done work for a great house. I'd love to learn new things and become acquainted with it. It would be an honor to serve a comtesse."

"You're too kind. For I know I'll never live up to that title. Would you be willing to start right away?" she asked shyly.

"I was hoping so. You see, I'm staying on in Paris while I look for work. I'd like to start as soon as possible."

So eager and enthusiastic to boot. For a moment, Avril almost felt sorry for her. In two weeks, she'd reduce her and her fiancé to fools. Here she thought she was taking on someone she could trust and who understood her troubles and deficiencies. But Avril found herself simply pouring sugar on a frosted cake. What was the need? She was accepted, hired, approved, everything. Half the success of the coming evening's robbery was complete. And then, of course, one detail had gone unnoticed.

"Christine?"

"Oh, Raoul!" the girl gasped. Twirling about had tossed her hair, drawing full attention to the young man at the doorway. One look at him, her love was understandable. In addition to the beauty of home and land, the man had just as much beauty of face and figure: tall and fit, blond, fashionably dressed, with a rifle slung in the crook of his arm. In his countenance, Avril immediately detected intelligence.

"This is Miss Perrin," Christine introduced her. "My fiancé, Raoul de Chagny."

"Pleasure to make your acquaintance, M. le Comte," said Avril, bending a courteous knee.

"Welcome, mademoiselle," he replied, with a due nod of the head. It was civil, not the open manner his fiancée had shown. "Have you any business with us today?" he requested.

"She's come for an interview, Raoul. What do you think? Would she not do just well as a lady's maid?"

"Well, do you think so?" A condescending brow was raised. "Have you served any families before? Anyone I might know?"

For this, Avril had been duly prepared. The guard and defenses were raised once again. "No one of consequence, monsieur. I did serve a Mme. Lauvier of Nice for two years, a kind, old lady, invalid. And there was a livery station in Normandy, where I've been for the last ten months. I'm used to long hours and hard work. I do have things to learn, but it'd be a privilege to earn that experience in your household."

"I am flattered. Have you really come so far? I saw a trunk by the door." Suspicious, indeed.

"I'm staying in Paris until I can take a post, M. le Comte." _How many times must I address the title?_ she sighed. _He knows that he is a count. I know he is, but if I say monsieur, it's not taken well_. The more questions the man seemed prevailed to make, the more it irritated him, the both of them. Off to the side, the girl paled in the cheek.

"Please, Raoul, I think she would do just fine. I know you asked for experience, but it's all just laying out dresses, fixing hair, and fetching things."

"I don't dispute your wishes, Little Lotte." _But you're not happy about it, _winced Avril. "Perhaps we might continue this discussion in my study, Miss Perrin. I'd simply like to review your references."

As it was he that put out the advertisement in the paper, he would be the one to please. At the bottom of the matter, Avril reminded herself it would be the decision of the master. For Miss Daaé was yet to be the mistress, and without his love and proposal, she had no other asset in this gild and crème de la crème society. Dutifully, she followed him, up stairs and through long, large hallways to a library. Generations of books found a home here. A few portraits of the most distinguished of the family were honored to hang the walls. The most modern piece had to be Louis-Philippe desk, accommodating everything and nothing of importance to the estate. His fondest companion sat at the corner of this desk: a rich, deep red and sweet friend that would cater to his whims at any hour of the day.

Unlike Christine, he fell into a typical category. A man, especially a young man, lived for the family name and the reputation of it. The average boy with too much money all to himself. And his bloodlines too pure for his own good. Perhaps the family could use a little common blood to bring them back to earth with the rest of mankind. Looking him in the eye, holding her head level with his, she waited upon his dignified speech. They all required a moment of thought before opening their mouths. The man can be a creature of impulse, as she'd observed.

"Your employers speak well of you," he declared, having looked over her pages of reference. "Rather exceptionally."

"Yes," she nodded.

"Why particularly do you seek a position here? It's a drastic change, quite a different environment from the inn and the house of invalids."

"And I do need to make my way," added Avril, something else for good measure. Why not? "I have family dependent on my income."

"Do they live here in Paris?"

"No, monsieur."

"How much do you send them?"

"A hundred francs a month." This detail went beyond the plot and characters that Bertrand invented for Mlle. Perrin. Often it was necessary to speak and think for herself. The least hesitancy might cost her credit.

"Very good. Very generous of you."

"M. le Comte," her voice cleared, "I hope you do not mind my saying, but I do need an answer right away. If you decide to take me on, I'd like to start as soon as possible. You understand?"

"Of course," he grinned. "I understand you have concerns, so I'll try to give you an answer as soon as possible. But there are other candidates, Mlle. Perrin. I don't wish to get your hopes up. For several have had more experience, and some have served as lady's maids already to others. I want my future wife to be well looked after and provided for, you see. She's had no upbringing for my society, and I'd like to treat her to every comfort and give her all the advantage I can for her new life."

"She seems a very becoming, beneficent woman. She will do just fine," she complimented.

"Never known a woman of such a big heart as she," he praised. "I love hear dearly, but no one can begin to imagine how deeply. You, though, compared with the others, seem to be her favorite. For she hadn't received any the others in our own drawing room."

To this, she managed to work a little blush with her laugh. That soft, meekly laugh. Judging the boy, he couldn't be more than twenty-three, but for his figure and overall countenance, he might easily be mistaken for an eighteen year old. It would seem he knew well enough what he was about, taking on the role of master with eagerness. Just as any man would so much in love with his bride-to-be, he would only buy, hire, and provide the best.

"Miss Perrin, I want to thank you for your coming all the way out here, but I'm afraid I cannot make this decision immediately." It took everything in her spirits to sustain the façade, in view of delayed promises. "Would you care to give your address. Whatever my decision, I'll send my response as soon as possible. Will that suit?"

"Just fine, M. le Comte."

Opening to a blank page in his memorandum book, he presented her a dipped pen. Though the hand did not tremble, her blood began to course the veins faster, stupidity and desperation governing it. _8230 Rue des Tuileries._

* * *

If suspense were poison, and dread capable of killing, she was as venomous as any viper. The wait and the fear of the worst kept her wide awake for four nights, and vigilant throughout the day. In that time, this man only known as 'Daroga' intrigued her a great deal. Of course, she had her priorities, to watch and be ready, and learn his comings and goings. He rose early and stayed out late, hailing a cab to take him to the Opera. Dressed in drab colors of his native country, it couldn't be guessed whether these outings were on account of a job or some social contract. Apparently, the pocketbook maintained a steady flow, but the man wasn't rich, or at least did not spend extravagantly. His life seemed comfortable and convenient enough, however, to keep a manservant. All chores of the house were always left to this plump, mustached creature. Occasionally, forced to obtain groceries, he would leave the house. Another setback in of itself. One thing was for sure: she would have to beat the man and the manservant to his postage. Giving this Persian's address for hers to the Comte had not been a decision planned for the interview.

With each lapsing day, Avril rose from bed early to stand in the shadows across the street. The streetlamp would still be burning. The sun would rise, and with the more light, the farther she'd retreat between the allies. The postman did not make it to this street until three in the afternoon. Some depressed, gloomy man of his forties with drooping hair and long nose always came to the door, ringing, and be answered by the manservant. It left only two options; neither one better or worse an idea than the other. With a bump in the shoulder, Avril could send his handful of postage scattered across the sidewalk. Some apology and false assistance, and without detection, she could pick up the Comte's letter. But she could not attempt it unless she were sure that very letter was in his hands, and this little design could not be attempted more than once. It would grow suspicion. The second option would have to be given her by chance. If the manservant and his master were out, and the post had come during that time, he'd simply pass that door and walk on. But this manservant, annoyingly faithful and prompt, opened the door every time.

From early in the week, high clouds lingered over the city, and for the last couple days, a mist came heavy. But finally, heaven broke into a full-fledged rain. The streets glowed in dull gray. The streetlamps burned continually, making it all the more difficult for the lighter to preserve the flame in-between posts. Fewer and fewer souls drifted along the sidewalks. From where she stood, rain falling from the eves drenched her again and again. But she couldn't risk moving too much. Upon the house she took shelter, an overly curious cocker spaniel leered at her, barking now and again. The house to her left sheltered a family of five: three of them children. No one could see her there.

As always, the Persian man had left the house that morning. The manservant, as usual, within doors. And right on time, here came the postman, walking from the west toward her. Opportunity! It may or may not be the day, but she resolved to try it once.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, monsieur!" cried Avril. The incompetent fool muttered and apologized automatically. He did not pay attention enough to avoid the intentional collision, and all the envelopes in hand fumbled. Two fell to the depths of a puddle. And like any Samaritan, she bent down to help him, scanning each letter as quickly as possible. The time and choice of day was chance, and proved to be sheer brilliance. It was the day! Half-soaked and running the ink down, one envelope borne her name: Danièle Perrin.

"Thank you, mademoiselle. My apologizes," he replied. Before her arm could even extend, the man had already gathered it. "Much obliged, much obliged. Thank you."

With a wrench of heart and stomach, she watched him pass her. And there, going up to the door. _Don't answer. Don't answer_, she begged inwardly, in vain. _Don't come. Don't be home_. The bell rang. The manservant received them, thanked him. If it weren't for human impulse, which plagues all humanity, her slim chance of recovering the letter would've escaped. Once the postman walked on, she ventured directly back, lunging for the door as it closed, and with a flicked finger of her glove, caught the door. Just enough!

A lock turned inside, but it didn't seal the door. Drawing a silent couple of breaths, Avril moved quietly. Carefully, the knob turned. Adept and experienced, the door made no noise, opening or closing. The real challenge now lay in destination. _Blast! Where did he put them? There's supposed to be a little table or chair by the front door where you drop your coat or hat and things. _None was found. Judging from the distance of the footsteps, the servant must've moved into the kitchen. And recalling that night, the kitchen, dining room, bedroom, and parlor were all separated by walls. Most likely if he didn't open them -and likely not dare take liberties with his master- he'd have cast them to a table. . . in the parlor.

If it weren't for the rain, trailing from her coat and skirts, and the squish from inside the boots, she'd have been invisible. Without this ability, Avril boldly stepped from the foyer, stride through the room, and snatched up the letter. Back through the door and out the street, running, the break was clean and free. Retracing herself back to the alley, beneath the nearest lamplight, a pair of frozen hands ripped back the seal.

_Dear Mlle. Perrin,_

_It would be my pleasure to take you on as a member of my staff. And my fiancée will be very pleased, awaiting for your arrival. In writing though, I would also like to address a special, most delicate issue. If you are not already aware, Miss Daaé has recently retired from the Opera stage. For reasons most calamitous and urgent. And lately, she's suffered ill effects of those events. Doctors have recommended that someone stay in the room or close-by at night. When you come, Miss Perrin, I shall be putting you up in the bedchamber next to Miss Daaé's. This will be a temporary arrangement, of course. Once we are married, you will not be as involved in this respects. Aside from this, your duties shall be the ordinary for a lady's maid._

_I hope you'll treat my fiancée with the utmost kindness and respect. Regardless of her low origins, I expect her to be treated as you would any lady of society. And not let her want for comfort. If you have any further questions, I'll answer them at another more convenient time. And if you would be so good, to keep all the information I've disclosed in this letter to yourself. Your salary shall be three hundred a year. Please, make your way here so we might settle you in as soon as possible._

_R.C._

**I'm sorry there's been a lack of Erik. Don't worry, he'll reappear very soon. I hope with that promise that the story will pick up its pace. In the meantime, a review or a couple would help my confidence. And I'll try my best to portray the characters as Leroux made them.**


	6. Chapter Five

**I never write anything but K, but this chapter, I might be forced to rate T. Nothing extreme. You'll probably figure out why, but just as a message to younger audience, I do not write this scene in to say that doing things illegal or underage makes you cool. It's merely portraying the low standard of living that Avril is living. Unfortunately.**

**Thank you again, to ones like Almecestris and Brambled13 for the loyal reviews, and everyone else who's been following. I don't know who you readers are rooting for out there. I realize some who click on my story are probably not thrilled at the idea of Erik (especially Leroux's version) being thrown together with an OC character. And maybe you're just the opposite. I don't know. But I hope, whoever you favor, that my amateur adaptation will please.**

~Chapter Five~

"Glad to hear it," declared Bertrand. "I was a little nervous when you came back with no results."

"Teach you to never lack faith in me again," teased Avril. "And to be frank, it was much easier than I imagined it."

"What's she like, the fiancée?" Taking a long drag on the cigarette, he released a slow stream from the lips, rising to float in the air of the parlor. "Pretty and charming, like the papers say?"

"Pretty but more easily charmed." Her exhale joined with his, in a single mesmerizing white cloud. "I assume most people would take her for an adventuress. A girl would have be talented to work her way from a theatrical stage all the way to the seat of a nobleman. Actually, she's a rather gauche creature."

"Is she really?"

"Well, you know my sister, Melicent. Think of her but with blond hair and blue eyes: that's Christine Daaé. Funny to think that childlike air and demure blush was once in productions like _Faust_, where propriety does not exist."

"Some men like that in a woman."

"Would you?" Avril chuckled. "Perhaps if you saw her, you might be converted."

"Why do you think it is boys do not play with dolls? They wear the same face all the time and say nothing for themselves." The both of them, seated at the divan, enjoyed a luxury that eluded them the majority of the time. Solitude. A few candles burned about the room. The rest of the 'house' had been neglected to the darkness. He sat turned towards her, while she faced forward. The look of deep thought, shaping her brow and lips, teased him.

"I expect he will be happy with her," she said. "He's eager to make her happy; it's in his conversation, in his eyes. Poor fool. While she may be at the prime age for marriage, he's still too much of a boy. Practically a Romeo."

"From you, calling a man Romeo is not a compliment." The left brow quirked amused. "Well, whatever you said to the little Comte, you did well."

"There's only one thing that worries me."

"If you think he'll check up on you, I really doubt it. Why would he go to all that trouble to find out about some housemaid? Even if he wanted to dig up your past, it's not as if he'll produce anything significant in two weeks' time. Danièle Perrin is nobody and has done nothing of consequence. It would be a bore to take an interest."

"That's not really my main concern." Her lip curled into a firm grimace. "When he sent me his response, he mentioned this certain condition. He asked that I be put in a room near Christine's for the duration of the two weeks."

"Why?"

"He eluded vaguely to something that happened that's now giving her nightmares. . . I can't say."

"Nightmares?" Bertrand retorted. "What does he expect you to do? Go in, rock to sleep, and tell her a bedtime story?"

"He didn't specify what I would do; he just said it was all arranged. Honestly, if she's that badly off, he should have a nurse or a doctor in my place."

"It's just two weeks. Two weeks."

"What does a girl like her know of nightmares?" she grumbled. "My life is a nightmare, but I never scream and bawl about it."

"Well, at least with her, try to be a little sweet," he advised. "You need them all to like you. They're just a means to an end."

"I was perfectly civil and respectful." At this doubt, her voice surged with growling defense. "It's not that I can't pretend. It's pretending that's painful. You should've seen this man's house, Bertrand. He's not a charming, kind-hearted gentleman with the house and wealth he has; how many people in the world are breaking their backs to keep a roof over their head and starving to feed their own? They have no idea."

"Well, Avril, do you intend to share your inheritance when you get it?"

"I will have what I deserve. Don't laugh at me," she sneered. "I've had my share of poverty. When these two weeks are over, it's my life, and I'll do as I please with it. I don't care if you think it terribly selfish. I know it is, and it doesn't bother me."

"Instinct," he answered. "The lions and wolves don't survive by sharing. It's a natural quality. What's to be ashamed of?"

_It's also human nature to be ashamed of one's selfish desires_, she thought. The fact that both her sisters were gone, and that they spoke so liberally in secrecy could be called proof of guilt. Melicent would think just the opposite. If given her choice, and if the truth be known, Melicent would prefer the diet of bread crumbs and water. What would she withhold of a hungry stranger? What would she deny herself or give up for another? Whenever she smiled at others, they smiled back. They could be called friends.

There were no such niceties in this life. _But I didn't ask to become what I am; it was necessary._ With that, she could always, almost always, silence her conscience.

"So you go tomorrow morning?"

She nodded. "The games will commence."

"I know it's not easy what you do, but I want you to know," he paused, "I really do appreciate your efforts." Very seldom did Avril see this pure genuineness. His face, smoothed of sneer, cynical reflections, to bare honest feeling. Those dark eyes suddenly soft. . . almost admiring.

"Thank you," she sighed, smoke lingering with it.

"It's been a good while since we've gotten to speak to each other alone," he noticed.

"Bertrand, we're always alone. If we weren't, Faure would've had your hide years ago." The eyes flicked toward the chair, where his uniform coat and helmet lay discarded on the back. He'd not been off duty two hours.

"Actually, I've been wanting a chance to talk with you. It's been a long time since we've been able to enjoy each other's company, and not talk about our raids and strategies, you know."

"It's always refreshing," she agreed. "It's a relief to be able to let your guard down. It's never possible to be so honest with Melicent and Estelle. And as much as I simply _adore _dearest Gaspar and Vérène," she said, rolling her eyes, "it would be fatal to my reputation to lay bare the soul."

"Don't care about them. They'll be on their way soon enough. But you and I-"

The sound of the front door instantly killed his opportunity. And his eyes fell in a slow, vexed blink. Even Avril stiffened at the entrance of her own sisters. The both of them looked quite worn. Little Estelle shivered from her thin shawl.

"Oh Bertrand," gasped Melicent. "I didn't know you were coming tonight. How have you been?"

"Quite well, my dear, thank you," he offered reply, a most civil response. And the smile forced into his lips. "Where have you two been tonight? You know, it's not safe in the streets after dark for two, sweet little mice like you."

"We're just fine. Avril sees to it that we're never in any harm's way," she answered, endeared and indebted. "Avril, you recall this morning the opening over at the tailor's? They decided to hire me."

"Congratulations. I knew you could do it," simpered her elder sister.

"The shop woman said I could start tomorrow, doing alterations and little things for her. She'll train me to take the place of her retiring seamstress."

"Happy to hear it," said Bertrand. "What a promising profession too. And what about you, Estelle? You bring any good news of your own?"

"They wouldn't have me," whined the youngest. "Apparently, I'm too young to know anything useful."

"If you want to be useful, why don't you go to the Caspiers' place and learn to clean a chimney?" Avril drolly suggested. "It's the only work that'll suit you anyway."

"I don't see you getting your hands dirty. Why should I?"

"Typical child."

The impudent girl, looking ready to pounce and wag her unruly pigtails, was stopped by the firm hands of the more sensible sister. Melicent urged her to go up to bed, and there, put an end to it. That didn't move her, however, to make her way towards the stairs also. Uncomfortable with the darkness, she scurried back and forth from the kitchen until the candles began to have real effect. Irritated beyond her wits, Avril hushed and went grave in face, extinguishing her remainder of cigarette. Subtle and clever, yet very transparent, how Melicent could interfere.

"It's getting late," Bertrand said at last, rising from the divan. The coat he flung over the arm, and the helmet, he concealed under the coat. "I'll see you at the 'café' in three days. Have some information for me by then."

"Goodnight," she answered, closing the door behind him. And it closed with a bit of a slam. For being five years her sister's senior, she felt like the child.

"I'm so sorry, Avril-"

"Melicent, I've asked you again and again. I know you do it on purpose," chided Avril. Her sister seated herself on the faded chair, a glass of water in hand, and another hand rubbing her temple. "I know you do not like Bertrand. But he is a friend of ours, and I expect you to treat him-"

"But I do like him, Avril. And he's very kind."

"Oh, save it!" she snapped. "You've never liked him. It's as plain as the nose on your face."

"Must he come and call at so late an hour?" It wasn't a voice of complaint, but it made no difference. "It doesn't seem like a gentleman to be calling on a girl so late."

"Your concern is not necessary. He's not a suitor, or anything like."

"And must you really smoke, Avril? It's not a pleasant smell, and it makes you cough dreadfully sometimes."

"It's not a habit of mine. And if I have a cough, it's because of my long hours walking in the cold," she explained. "I take care of myself better than any of you. Speaking of which, Melicent, you don't look so well."

"Just another one of those headaches. Oh. . . I don't mind the ache. It's just turning into stabbing pain. . ."

"You should go straight to bed." Forgetting the previous moment's aggravation, Avril came to her sister's side, pulling her arm until she stood. Striking directly in the middle of the forehead, Melicent held a hand to the tender section. "You're not nauseous, are you?"

"Maybe a little. I just need to sleep."

"I hope you mentioned this to the shopkeeper. It won't do to work and kill yourself over it. Come on. Just lean on me, move slow."

"Thank you, Avril. . ." she moaned. Avril took the water glass from her, and slipped a cradling arm beneath her shoulders. "Thank you. . . You really are too good to me sometimes."

"Enough of that, Melicent," muttered Avril. "Save your breath to climb the stairs."

* * *

The duties of a lady's maid appealed to her, to one who eluded physical labor any chance she got in her life. Christine did not make a burden of herself. Cleaning up after herself and keeping the room tidy, there was rather little to be done. Making the bed, laying out clothes, and refilling the washbowls took no skill to accomplish. The frocks and day dresses with snags and tears, Christine set aside to mend on her own. Of course, the proper lady's maid would've insist that this be left to her, but Avril did not mind her self-sufficiency. At least, she had made her way enough in the world to earn her bread.

During the day, she had to search earnestly for things to do. A withered, old housekeeper would inquire about the dinner menus and instructions for the staff during the day, and Christine could barely think of things for them to do. Walks through the rose garden did pass time, and stretching her fingers with a few scales on the piano occupied the young woman as well. Yet, there was still so many things left untouched. The stables did not appeal. If she'd been born into riches, Avril should've seen herself spending time with horses, riding and jumping and dressage.

"I am not much of a rider, I'm afraid," she confessed to Avril, or rather Danièle.

"You afraid of horses?"

"A little. I didn't learn to ride when I was young, and I was always nervous sitting on the saddle. Do you ride?"

"I never had many opportunities." Holding Christine's hair in one hand, a brush in the other, she discovered, for a rather stubborn curl, these tendrils were soft to the touch. On the market, they'd be sold at the price of a silk. Far be it from common sense, a wicked urge of jealousy had Avril entertaining the thoughts of Delilah, to cut this glorious mane. This sweet temper could only be endured for so long.

"Perhaps we may attempt it one of these days."

"I don't think the Comte should like one of his horses being borrowed by an employee," noted Avril. "And you could do better for company than some lowly servant."

"I don't have many friends yet. I hope to meet more people once we're married, but for now, I'm only interested in Raoul's happiness."

"That's all very well and good."

"Have you any family, Miss Perrin? From what I understood from Raoul, you have a few younger siblings."

"Yes."

"How old are they?"

"Old enough to look after themselves." The brush had caught in a curl, and the more personal the questions, the greater the urge to rip the teeth of it from the girl's hair. Both upper and lower jaw grated against each other.

"It is fortunate for you to have any," remarked Christine. "It's lonely to grow up without someone's company. I mean, my father did well by me, and proved the best companion. But I should've enjoyed a brother or sister, especially as a child. And as we grew up, they'd be someone to experience and help you through your own trials-"

"Yes, yes they've been a great comfort," sighed Avril.

"I hope it's not too painful of me to ask about those things. Is it? You must've been through many difficult circumstances."

"We have survived. No complaints."

"What happened to your parents?"

"Both dead," she replied coldly.

"Oh, I'm so sorry."

Before being given the chance to ramble and comfort, Avril jumped in before her mistress. Christine observed her eyes by the mirror, hard and unfeeling. "There's no need or use in lamenting my losses, my lady. For there is nothing we cannot lose and not recover from, you know. It is learned. And all the better for those who learn to live."

". . . It is learned?" she repeated. The shock spreading across her pale complexion. "You do not. . . miss them?"

"I shall always remember them fondly," Avril restated. "Mourning can only last so long though."

To a child who knew nothing but a dear father and raised in love, the expressions of this girl nearly appalled her. The only thing keeping Christine from speaking out against it was her quality of compassion. Coarse manners, bluntness, and hardened eyes resulted of children being raised in less favorable environment. Not all children were loved and treated as careful as they should've been. Bedtime stories and gift-giving, in some homes, must be unheard of. Erik had been proof of it. Just the thought of that, her hands clasped together in her lap, gently tracing the outline of the gold ring.

All who saw assumed it belonged to Raoul. More sad than that was how Raoul let all friends and observers believe. There was no correction. He allowed them all to assume it belonged to them: their engagement ring. But she had made him a promise. Regardless her situation now, Christine held faithful to Erik's words. She would wear the ring as a promise to him, until he was dead. On that day, she'd return to the Opera to assist in the burial, and return him the ring. It'd been nearly a month since that dreadful, long night. The advertisement in the Époque was expected any day now. Every morning the paper came, Raoul turned the pages in his quest of it: those three simple words.

Someone called for Christine outside, whom Avril recognized as the housekeeper. One question or another that took the young mistress from the room. Once she'd excused herself, Avril took the time to lay everything in its proper order. For tomorrow, Christine requested this airy cotton gown of pale pink. Judging the wear, it was an old favorite. The trousseau was still being put together, and in the meantime, the girl had to be wearing many things of her old wardrobe. That didn't mean though that her fiancée neglected a single detail. Several new gowns hung at the ready. Her brazen hands ran through the skirts of silk, and fingering the ruffles and lace furbelows. _Such expense for the yards of fabric merely amounted to pennies with someone as rich as the Comte de Chagny_, she mused.

In view of a lifetime, these next fifteen days didn't seem a great sacrifice, but in the present, she'd known no day in her life so long as this. The fitting of the bride's dress was scheduled for eleven o'clock in the morning. The invitations, all prepared, were to be sent out that day. Come the day after, the house would be receiving the arrival of Raoul's prestigious relatives. Only those, of course, that did not object to the groom's choice of bride. Much chaos and activity would surround them, serving a distraction for the couple. That was to leave Avril's evenings rather free. It wouldn't be until the last few days that things began to gain some momentum of motion.

While the master and his servants concentrated their efforts on the preparations, there'd come more time and freedom for the study and investigation required for the raid. -Where was the vault? the key? the nearest door? the closest window? And how much loot could they manage in their allotted time? These thoughts proved too deep. Unable to think, the mind drifted, spanning the dimensions of Christine's bedchamber. Everything about the room -the furnishings, trinkets, antiques- boasted rather proudly. How many things a beloved wife could be allowed to own! What convenience to have a mirror built into the vanity table; its framework decorated in oak-carved roses and vine. A gossamer curtain hung suspended all the way round the bed. Walking on the red rug had to be the closest thing to walking on a cloud. And should Miss Daaé's dainty feet get even a little cold, slippers of velvet lay tucked just beneath the skirts of the bed. Even the curtains hung in layers; for all rich houses had windows and curtains, with a casement silk between the drape and the glass. All such things that Avril could wish for, yet none could be taken in the raid. Thieves don't risk their necks for a nice chair or a piece of silk that hangs above the bed. What can only be taken is anything that could be carried off. But they were not the only things to capture attention.

Consumed in envies, and feeling suddenly weak, her eyes drifted toward the little ebony and ivory carved jewelry box, sitting on the nightstand. Unguarded. Without lock and key. Temptation. . . Not hearing any footsteps outside, Avril brazenly opened the lid, allowing her eyes fall upon the dear treasures. Of course, they weren't the prize jewels of the collection. These few earrings, bracelets, or necklaces were more common ornaments. If lost, they were replaceable. A strange warmth filled her chest, but not an unusual feeling. They weren't expensive by any means, simply pretty. One thing in particular, happened to be a fetching silver chain with four red stones as pendants. Modest and subtle, just to the taste of their owner. How lovely they looked too, with the burning candle playing across their surface. Walking over to the mirror, Avril held both ends, raising the chain to her neck for a look. It pleased her very much.

It chinked in her hand, as she pondered her next action. And if left alone long enough, the necklace would've become her property, dropped into an apron pocket. No one would've been wiser. And then, a human silhouette shifted out from the shadow of the changing screen.

"You'd be foolish to do that," he growled warningly. At once, the voice caused her a start, making her whirl around, gasp. . . For just the same as she first saw him that night, he reappeared again, dressed all in black and with a full black mask. And also as she remembered, his eyes blazed with divine wrath. But there was nothing godly in his advance toward her. One hand was inside the long cape, ready to draw a weapon. Instead of screaming or drawing back, she stood in place. Whether it was valor or paralysis by fear, it couldn't be determined. Her heart within, clenching and seizing.

**He's back! Yes, I've been waiting for this too. Now she's in for it! I already have the plot sort of in mind, but I would love to hear from your own. What would you think or like to see happen? I'm flying without a beta, so you all are free to make remark.**

**Red roses to all reviewers. But if they were literal, I'm sorry to say they'd probably be brown and dead. I've not successfully kept a green friend alive yet:(**


	7. Chapter Six

~Chapter Six~

It was very unlike her to gape before an attacker, in her own terror. A blush rushed to her cheeks in a fury. For he stopped inches from her face, but with equal fear, her eyes darted in the direction of the door. It would be worse off if anyone heard them outside.

"How did you know I was here?" demanded Avril, whispering.

"Erik watches this house," he confessed, unabashed. "And Erik sees everyone who comes and goes. You're the new lady's maid to Miss Daaé."

"But how would you know that?"

"For the last several days, you waited to receive your answer at the residence of my friend on Rue des Tuileries. You thought you were hiding? And you left wet footprints when you snuck into the house to retrieve it."

Recovering from the initial shock of his appearance, angrier feelings gave way, filling the arteries running from the heart, for being cheated out of her secrecy. "Well, then?" she swallowed. "Have you come here for me?"

"Erik will protect Miss Daaé from any harm, by anything or anyone, including you. . . Avril Chasseur."

"You've found out my name." A brow quirked at this newfound cognizance.

"Yes, which leads one to question: what does one of the likes of you deserve? I'm torn between imprisonment or doing what I had intended to do to you the night we met."

"I don't suppose I can influence you on that score," she replied. "But I assure you, monsieur, I'm not here to do the woman or any in this household injury. This is merely a job."

"What else?" he retorted. "Whenever you've paid a visit to the houses of the rich, it's never without an intention. What is it you're trying to steal here?"

_So, he knows who I am_, she assumed. _He knows what I do, and expects me to beg for his mercy, to be suddenly contrite, and sob until he sympathizes. Well, if anything, I will not lie now; I cannot lie_. ". . . The Comte de Chagny's collection," Avril answered. It didn't cause a single ripple, no surprise or disgust, in his camouflaged countenance. Another proof itself he'd not lived a very upstanding life himself. A gloved hand rest on that loop of rope within the folds of his long cloak. She did her utmost, however, to keep eyes level with his; there are no lies between two equals.

"Then do tell, why is it necessary of you to plunder Miss Daaé's possessions?"

"What's a girl like her going to care if she loses a little trinket, when she's about to be showered in diamonds?"

What he did next surprised her, making her jaw nearly fall. For he had not brushed her, touched her, nor had she turned her back on him. Yet somehow, the little collar of red stones she'd secreted in her apron pocket had magically appeared, dangling from his left hand.

"This belonged to the girl's mother, who died when she was only two years of age. And her father passed it along to her before he died," he explained, contempt shaping the grimace of his lips. "You think it right to take this?"

"How did you do that? You picked my pocket without being near me; how did you do it!"

"How do you do such a thing without remorse?"

A hot breath exhaled, between pinched cheeks and a puckered lip. "What does it matter? So you know who I am. I suppose you want to turn me in? go to the Comte and reveal my true character?" she dared him, a brow arching.

"Erik does not care what you do, mademoiselle," he snapped impatiently. "I'm here to see that you do her no harm, or none of your counterparts either. And you do not feel regret for things that you should-"

"Do I understand this all correctly?" she interrupted him. Two and two together began to make sense of everything. Was it coincidence that the two of them had ended up in this same situation as before? She drew a few steps back, just out of caution, but it was more to view the full truth of his face, from his own eyes. "Is it her? Is Christine Daaé the same woman you spoke of that night, the one who rejected you?"

In contrast to what she could've predicted, he felt no shame. "The very same, mademoiselle."

"So now I see why you're here. You're following her-"

"Those reasons are not your concern." Shoving passed her, he delicately returned the simple jewelry to its case, taking just as much care as her not to make much more sound than necessary. "For your own sake, Erik suggests that you depart while you are still unknown and unscathed." The threat, however, held no power with her.

"This must be a great blow for you. You were thrown over for a rich boy."

"Since you seem to lack the sense, I'll speak more plain." For once, he actually spoke without referring to himself. And within an instant, she felt the back of her head and her entire spine pressed against the bedpost. Almost all the life force of him, bearing through his hand into her neck. While she didn't scream, every hair stood upon end. "_You will leave this house. . . and you'll never return_."

"With all due respect," Avril's voice rasped, "I am here for my own reasons, which have nothing to do with your sweetheart. Would you. . . would you kindly let go of my jugular?" This took a moment of thought before he allowed her the freedom of air. "Thank you. Would you mind. . . Just indulge me for a moment. If you are capable enough to enter your rival's house and sneak around without being seen, why is she still here? Why not just take her back?"

"Take her back? You mean stealing, kidnapping?"

"Why not?"

Those eyes burned, seemingly glowing. "I already did. . ."

"Oh!" For it was all she could think to say. He'd turned away from her, and seemed to pace slowly, back and forth through the woman's chamber. Meanwhile never taking his eyes off the door, lest someone else come in. "You. . . you kidnapped her. . . and she escaped?"

"Of course not! Erik released her."

"What?"

"Is it unfathomable a beast can treat a woman with any kind of dignity! Erik released her. It was very wrong of him to take her and keep her with him by force."

"Did you love her that much?" This stopped him in his tread. The young woman, staring and fascinated with his very presence, couldn't seem to comprehend the concept of simple goodness. "You kidnapped her? and then changed your mind?"

"Love is a great power, mademoiselle. Something you obviously don't understand."

"And weakness," she shook her head, with rolled eyes. "Aren't you afraid of the fiancé coming after you? If he found out you're here, you'd be a dead man."

"Worry about yourself-"

"Who of us would he believe? An innocent-looking woman or a man in a mask?"

"The boy knows who I am. He doesn't know you."

"Well, who's the more evil of the two of us?" she challenged, her lip shaped wickedly. "I suppose you and I are both in a compromising position. . . How about I won't tell if you won't-"

"You will leave, and your secret is safe," Erik challenged. "That's my only offer."

"Why would you care what happens to the Comte? Why else would you be here if not for revenge? If anything, what I'm doing would be more injury to his pride. Surely, you don't object."

"You really wish to stay, don't you?"

"I'll do anything. I'm willing to offer a share of my fortune for-"

"Erik has no interest in your bribes, mademoiselle," he spat.

"I didn't think you would be," Avril shook her head, perceptively. "Can't buy what you really want most. . . can it?" This time, he actually paused in contemplation. She had insinuate what was true. Her words finally held force with him. "You want her."

"You are _rather desperate_," he hissed, "to grasp at anything that'll negotiate with me. She is not property. She is not to be sold and paid for, you filthy, little rat."

"So don't buy her. Don't take her back then; win her," posed Avril. The insult made no dent in her outgoing countenance. "You have at least two weeks before any ceremony takes place. And what is the boy? How does a dog measure up to a wolf? What's the charm of a knight next to a pirate? Steal her heart."

Baffled and somewhat suspicious, he eyed her with the same angry glower, but to no avail rendering her humble. The question, the whole situation presented was proof of temptation. Those dark, naturally narrow eyes, somber and smiling from out of them, filled one with a deceptive sense of security. There was no seeming reason to take it for a joke. She offered alliance! Just what lay beneath the mask didn't matter in that moment. Of course, the woman simply feared for her own skin. It wasn't a mark of any real consideration or friendship towards himself. The moment forced her to it.

"How do you intend- or rather why do you suppose I even require your assistance?" he noted. "For it's certain to Erik, you're not interested in Miss Daaé's welfare. And you're not a woman given to the insipid pleasures of matchmaking. What is it you offer?"

"Well, as her lady's maid, I am in charge of all things and matters to do with Miss Daaé. So I could do things, say drop a note for her on the vanity, addressed in your name. I might arrange a certain time and place of meeting in the garden. . . while the Comte is out of the house."

"In whatever way, for anything you might be needed for, you agree to be of service?"

"Yes."

Still skeptical, the man paced once more, but only once across the room, more slowly, more absorbed and languid in motion. His eyes dared stray from the door, towards her.

"Why?" he asked, his voice having not dimmed in its brusqueness. "Why would you help Erik?"

"I suppose I could thank you somehow," shrugged Avril. "For you were kind enough to let me go that night. . ."

"It was not kindness," he denied.

"For whatever reason. . . you might call it repayment."

Or perhaps, in another word, it could be described as the prodding of conscience. For a moment, she began to doubt the certainty of his answer. At any moment, Christine would return, or the housekeeper. The candles around them burning wax. The clock down the hall, clicking incessantly.

"The terms are not unreasonable," he acknowledged.

"Acceptable?"

". . . Yes."

A visible sigh, unable to help herself, deflated the lungs. Success!

"Oh, but. . ." This stopped him half-way out the balcony doors. At a distance, she took in his full frame, which met if not exceeding six feet five. While average in her own height, he made the average look as dwarfs. And no man had she ever met before with golden eyes. "One more thing," she insisted, "if things do go well for you both, and my congratulations if it does, just please don't steal her away until the night of the engagement ball. Is that fair?"

"Not until the coveted jewels come out of hiding, right?" he retorted.

"Just about the size of it, yes."

"Be grateful, at least, that Erik agrees to anything at all."

Just as instantly her heart leaped in joy, her jaws clenched it between her teeth. Whenever it came to the matter of this woman, she never could win. For that night he shoved her out the window of the Persian's house, she knew how strong and deep this love ran for Christine. It didn't make things any smoother.

"Well, I hope you know I'm being very generous," Avril reminded. "Perhaps we should meet another time at a-"

"Erik will meet you where and when he sees fit, mademoiselle. That is all. Go about your business as usual. There won't be any interference."

Gazing back at him, a sudden urge to laugh arose. "You look as if you've just been shot," she remarked. "Are you not pleased?"

". . ."

"Well, at least, we're not enemies."

"We have only one common purpose. That's all we can agree to, and no more. Erik doesn't want friendship, or company, or pity."

"No need for concern on that score. I've got none to offer. I'm simply glad that you'll be getting what you want."

By this time, he was outside, leaning precariously over the low balcony railing. His shoulder in the vines. And the strangest sort of feeling made his eyes soften, so as to dim their blaze, almost like sadness. ". . . Erik doesn't want what he wants."

Within the second, he vanished. Though the moon shone brightly on the balcony, his shadow seemed to simply meld with the ivy. She blinked several times, and waited, wondering if he'd reappear. Perhaps he played another magic trick. After the way he retrieved that necklace, nothing was to be put passed him. Somewhat confused, Avril's shoulders sagged in a shrug.

"Well, that makes a lot of sense."

* * *

Morning hours were usually silent ones among their quarters. For several years, Melicent spent herself working late or before sunrise hours. No smell of her cooking wafted from the kitchen, not a fume or a burning charcoal. Orderly. . . Being recently employed for a dressmaker took her away around four in the morning and let her go by noon. If she had any reason for a sly entry, it was a convenience. With Estelle, her odd jobs and irregular priorities made her more cautious coming and going. As far as Avril observed, her youngest sister mustered the strength to somehow pick up a broom. No dirt and dust showed in the eight o'clock sunlight. Every window in tact; today, it was three weeks since replacing the last one that suffered a neighborhood brat throwing a rock through.

All seemed quiet, except for the gentle scuffling coming from upstairs, in her bedroom.

"What do you think you're doing here?" So abruptly she entered, it startled her sister, throwing her off her balance from her knees. One end of the box appeared smash; the lock virtually rendered useless. Bank notes littered the floor like dead leaves, with several spilled pouches of loose francs. Not many but enough to make a loud clattering. And in one of Estelle's hands, a couple diamond ropes that were never recovered by their owners.

"You. . . I thought you were at work. . ." babbled Estelle. More or less angry than guilty, a contorted, sneering lip protruded. "So this is how you always have money, and so much of it-"

"What? You couldn't have figured it out for yourself after all these years? How else do you think I support our lifestyle here, clinging to bare necessity?"

"You lie!" cried Estelle. "You're a thief!"

"Essie, I'm in no mood for your ill-humor," growled Avril. "I am going to be late going back. I just need to leave Bertrand a note before tonight."

"Of course. I'm sure he'd be very much interested to know how you make your living."

"Go ahead, if it would shut you up for two minutes. Now, you put everything you took out back in my chest! And I'm going to count and make sure you did; I know everything that's in there."

"You should be helping us with this money, Avril! It belongs to all of us-"

"It's not yours. It was money I got on my own, without you or Melicent. I'll see to it how it's used around here. And I provide you both more than enough to satisfy." Without waiting for obedience, Avril reclaimed the necklace and all loose effects, pitching them back to their case. With each handful and franc, the eye counted the clicks and rustlings.

"Look at you! You've sunk yourself to the lowest-"

"Leave me alone!"

"How can you do this? Keeping money stashed away from us, while Melicent works so tirelessly to pick up for your slack around here. Doesn't complain. Never speaks malicious of you. You don't deserve it!"

As the hinge was beyond repair, the lid would not even shut. For this could only mark the beginning, the beginning of her own career. It started with this same, insatiable greed. Desperate actions followed, one daring attempt after another. Soon enough, she realized the truth of all those accusations. But that was long ago. Words from the most bothersome sister did not provoke, neither conscience or temper. Avril rose, retrieving some paper from the table alongside her bed, and taking the pen and ink with her downstairs.

With Estelle's discovery out of mind, Bertrand came to the fore of thought. The man would call if careless how she divulged her secret, her very intentions to a stranger. Endless questions followed his doubts. If ever it arose in the past, she wouldn't win his trust again without jumping through rings of fire. She learned, in some ways, she could pick and choose battles, to disregard his advise. But some matters, Avril always found herself forced to surrender. There could be lies, but never secrets. She could give a kiss, but never be so weak as to love. She could have friends, but never accomplices. Outside their small circle, no one could be deemed trustworthy. This masked man had his own purpose, as she her own. It wasn't conspiracy, not against her master.

_Funny, if they were to meet, I'd think the two could be good friends_, she reasoned. _They both, all of us have a lot in common. And our wants do not conflict with each other. He does not wish to hinder us. He won't give me away, on his conditions. Fair enough! And I heartily support the soul's endeavors. Yes, perhaps Bertrand should meet him. Better we have no secrets, no doubts on that score. . . We're all on the same side_.

On the verge of shocking revelations, a crashing sound behind caused Avril to bang her knee against the bottom of the table, with the pen nearly jumping from grasp. Melicent never slammed a door, or threw it open in any fit of tempter. It would've been expected of Bertrand, but not her.

"Melicent!" gasped Avril, relieved.

"Oh, I'm so sorry! I didn't think you'd be home this morning. . ."

"What's the matter? You're pale." If it hadn't been for the door, slowing her fall enough to catch herself, she'd have landed flat on the foyer. Both hands trembled something fierce.

"Madame was kind enough to let me come home early-"

"If she'd been kind, she would've sent you home," groaned Avril, exasperated with the two. "Melicent, you shouldn't even have gotten out of bed. Is it your head again?"

"Thought it would've been better by now. . ." she exhaled deeply. "Oh, Avril, it's probably the worst of them all I've ever had; it hurts. . ."

"Go upstairs, and I'll fix you up some tea. After that, I'll have Rodrigue over-"

"No, no, I couldn't possibly have you-"

"Don't argue with me! I'm getting the doctor."

Any other protests little sister dared to venture went unheard, as Avril forcefully herded her up the stairs and through to their chambers. Being the only spare, there was no luxury of privacy between her two younger sisters. Of course, Estelle had argued against this arrangement for years. Meekly, mousy, and unchanging, Melicent felt herself treated gratefully, and crawled in between the bed sheets. For the tremors persisted with a violence that made the whole bed frame tremble. But strangely enough, Avril could not confirm a fever, grazing a hand against her forehead. _How much longer must we all put up with this? They're all perplexed, these doctors! Amateurs! Incompetent idiots! Meanwhile, she lays in bed half the time and suffers, and all of us with her. These migraines render her useless!_

"Can't you see? I told you so," huffed Estelle, right in her face just beyond the doorway. Avril closed it back gently. "If your trade is so prosperous, why can't you at least serve us both some good? You know how sick she gets. If it weren't for me here, she'd have been a cripple long ago."

Just as always. Always to proclaim herself the hero, and such heroics involved nothing more to Estelle than a cold, wet cloth to the forehead and a little gruel to settle the stomach. Set in rivalry to Avril's, it produced a sweaty handprint right in the side of her cheek. And as she howled with embellished pain, Avril seized her by the collar of her dress, holding her inches from her own nose.

"Don't you dare compare your bedside manner to mine! You go out and earn your own living before you give me cheek about my contributions around here. Now do us all some good, and be useful; make her a cold compress. If that doesn't suit you, then stay out of my way!"

Forgetting her unfinished letter, she took only her private chest with her out the door. _I should've made her promise not to tell Melicent_, she pondered. But fires still burned and spewed flame. Prudence did not overcome pride. While the one's opinion mattered, it wasn't dignified to return to her own accuser and beg for anything now. . . however anxiously she wished to anyway. Melicent loved her; an illusion it was, but one she would fight to preserve. In the meantime, there was a doctor to be called, another migraine to be reckon with, another burden.

**This won't happen often, two updates close together. Hope what little you've been given has intrigued you all thus far. From here, I think the story will pick up a little. I'm a couple chapters ahead of six. I'll make a couple guarantees of things you'll see within the coming chapters. More of Erik, of course! The Persian will return to torment and keep everyone on the straight and narrow. Erik and Christine will meet again, as well as Avril and Erik, obviously. And some OC characters will come to the foreground. You'll all get a chance to know them a little better, Avril's family, comrades, and including the decorated officer/smiling rogue... Bertrand;)**

**If you knew a person like Avril in real life, would you be more inclined to hate or pity? Just curious...**


	8. Chapter Seven

**Here's a long chapter for you. Pretty much everybody's in it, I think. As a side note, if you went to a name origins dictionary online, the literal translation for the name Avril is 'to open.' And her last name, Chasseur, is the French word: hunter. He-he;)**

**Let me know what you think of this update. Is there something you would like to know about Avril? I mean, that will come up eventually, but if there's anything of particular interest, I'll try to answer it with the updates to come. **

~Chapter Seven~

Though late to the attendance of Christine's fittings, it wasn't reprimanded. After offering sincerest apologies for her tardiness and gasping for breath, Christine had already laid out her own clothes, fixed her own hair, and half way in the process of making up the bed. If her fiancé had found out, it would be a sure dismissal. Fortunately for her, everyone about the house had been much too preoccupied by the flood of relatives, and accommodating for them.

"Oh, it seems you have a lock coming loose, my lady," said Avril. Of course, there was none. Christine attempted to look for it in the vanity mirror, but with a quick hand, undoing the hairclip a little, enough curls fell out. Enough to need attention again.

"My hair. . ." she pouted. "I'm sorry. It's a creature all its own. I hope you don't mind-"

"Nonsense," Avril smiled, igniting herself with a syrupy giggle. "I should've been here in time to do it for you."

"Well, I've been doing my own hair for years. Or my friend, Meg, would help if needed. Feels so strange being tended to by servants. I hope it doesn't put you out too much."

Fighting the impatient sigh, she simply answered: "It's what I do for a living, my lady."

"You are kind. Though I'm not married yet, and even when I am, it will still feel awkward. I'm not the thing, you know. I wasn't cut out of the same cloth as these prestigious relatives of Raoul's. Why his Aunt Sophia really dislikes pretty much everything I do; she did before she arrived."

"What else is to be expected of the nobility?"

". . . Nothing more," sighed Christine, with sagging shoulders. "Well. . ."

At last, the just precise moment that she'd been wishing for had come. Long sighs and that dull expression in the mirror hinted. Misery. Of course, it required care, and suppressing the instinct to take a little pride in this girl's pain could only be done by a talented actor.

"Do you ever have second thoughts?"

"W-what?"

"Or at least. . . some nervousness?"

". . . I suppose you might call it that," confessed Christine. Gravity flushed the color from her cheeks, being naturally fair already. No doubt, comprehending more than she let on. "I am happy, and I love Raoul. . . but this is not really the wedding and marriage. . . No, I shouldn't say any of that. It sounds terrible of me."

"Well, how would you know if it's real love?" Avril persisted, her tones soft. "If the anxiety outweighs the feelings of love, or if it's obligation, how do you know you're not making a mistake?"

". . . Only one can know the answer, what they feel in their heart," she shrugged. "But the heart is fallible. . . I'm not saying I am unsure in my heart toward Raoul. He is my dearest friend, my beloved, he'll do anything for me, and he. . . It's not simple."

"I take it there was another before him?" Her answer was in the growing of Christine's agitated appearance. For indeed, the suggestion had wreaked havoc in that rosy garden of life she'd planted in her head. Another. . .

"Yes," she swallowed. "Yes, actually around the same time."

"A man at the Opera?"

". . . Yes, at the Opera," nodded Christine. "I'd known Raoul many years ago; we used to play together as children. But this other man had been around the theater for a long time. And he'd been giving me singing lessons. . . Well, when Raoul had come for the first time, that was the beginning of all our troubles. The man went mad with jealousy. Raoul tried to protect me from him, thinking he exercised too much influence over me."

"Was it one-sided?"

"What do you mean?"

"Just a little?" Avril tempted her.

". . . He had the most beautiful voice. I used to think it an angel's. And he had such a gift for music that one might forget what he really was, just a man. He loved me with a dangerous ardor, and lived on his music alone. Perhaps he supposed I would learn to be like that one day."

"A musician?" It hadn't occurred to her before. He seemed more the kind of man to lurk in dark passages, pick pocketing men, and kidnapping women as he'd said. In him, there was that capability, obvious to Avril, but to think of him, his voice raised in song, or his hand to a piano key almost provoked her to laughter. It didn't match; it didn't suit. But her incredulity was beside the point.

"I've spent a good deal of my life devoted to the study of music, but I've come to find, after being removed from the theater, that singing on a stage and living those dreams is not a necessity to life. I love music, but I cannot live on music alone."

"Why does that make you so guilty?"

"He loved me for it, he loved my voice. . . I don't know how I can explain it!" cried Christine, shaking her head with closed eyes. "I don't say I hate him, but I wish. . . I wish I could've. . ."

"That you could've loved him?"

"No!" Righteous anger. "No, you're wrong-"

"Forgive me, I thought you. . . were merely asking my opinion. It's not my place, I know," Avril acknowledged sufficiently calming the girl. "I'm sorry it cuts you up. It cannot be easy being loved by two men, being forced to choose."

". . . You have no idea," mumbled Christine.

"Perhaps I shouldn't give it to you after all."

"What?" With her hair finally done and up, she faced her maid suddenly overreached. "Give me what?"

"Well. . ." _Best look a little hesitant_, mused Avril. _A little innocent and sincere_. "I've had a letter from this man who'd professed to be this admirer. . . I didn't know if you'd really wish to hear from him again, but he asked I give this to you."

For the long moment of indecision, Avril almost gave up expecting her to take it. She seemed to absolutely hate it, being the recipient of yet another. For probably the accepting another love letter from an admirer other than the fiancée had to be some sort of infidelity. Perhaps it was to her; Avril regarded her torn expression as a matter of course. Guilt would pass as renewed feelings were felt. In the present though, she did not feel it. Christine's features contorted in dread, hinted with something angry.

While keeping a discreet distance from the shoulder, Avril glimpsed a sample of handwriting. All lovers say the same sort of things, with the same sort of words and harrowing tones. And he usually holds a steady pin and sculpts beautifully across the page. His writing looked tiny, scrawled and scratched; low-hanging letters dipped onto the next line, interfering with others. Just like the hand, the writing held no beauty either. It wasn't his aim to impress the damsel in that way, but before she could attempt to make out the sentences, Christine fretfully folded the thing again and placed it in the middle vanity drawer. Particularly notable was that she concealed at the bottom. Red glowing bright in her cheeks.

"He won't let me go," sighed Christine remorsefully. "He can't yet believe that I will be happy, so he watches me. . . He's been watching me this whole time."

"I do not presume you're in any danger," said Avril, "if that's what concerns you."

"If only you knew, Miss Perrin, all that has passed between us. . . I wish I could be as free of heart as you are with your own loved ones. I could not love him. . . not. . ."

"Not with any certainty, I might say."

This was taken offensively. "Beg your pardon?" Christine's brow furrowed.

"I mean, it must be such a shock, it's not with any certainty. . . what you feel. . . I suppose?" Never before had she stumbled for words so ungracefully. Avril swallowed hard, hoping her mistress wouldn't react any more to it. Having always been used to prying, it was with great strength she resisted from asking about the note. _What exactly did he say? I'm sure he says 'I love you' at least five times. Does he say I am dying without you, like he did that night? If he was as emphatic as he was when I'd heard him, he must've shed tears upon it. Tearstains go farther than anything written, smeared in all the right places._

"I thought he was rather unwell, last time we'd seen each other," Christine related. "He asked that I wear his ring, this ring, as one last promise. When I had word from a friend of his, I would go back to his. . . home, and follow through with his burial. Didn't understand it. He said not what he was dying from, of any condition. So I've been. . . terrible as it is to say, I've been waiting to hear of his death. Not to say that I couldn't wait for it, but I've been expecting to hear news any day. Now. . . now he's suddenly revived, and with a will to live, if only for a second hope. . . How do I tell him I have no such hope to give him?"

"Did he request a meeting?"

"He asks permission to meet me again, someplace at sometime of my choosing," she nodded. Gone was the pink, now looking pale and nearly sick. "But he will not wait. He says he watches me, to be sure. . . I suppose, that I am happy and unharmed and. . . Well, never mind the rest. I couldn't do that though. Not with Raoul. . ."

With her head turned, Avril's eyes rolled. The man was certainly a fool, not only for attempting to rekindle the love but with this girl. Of course, artists are not rational men like most. Art is something to be suffered for, and not enjoyed. The drive for success is never satisfied, and even when victory is reached, it is not pleasing. They're all the same.

"Sleep on it, my lady," Avril advised. "If you're unsure, it deserves consideration. And if your heart is elsewhere, it is not to feel any guilt over. Your future husband deserves full love, no fractions. So if you are not sure, you'd torture him as well as yourself. . . Take this new development as a trial for the two men."

"You're very kind to say so. Most women would not be as understanding as yourself. I hope that you'll be even more generous still, if you would not mention this note or our conversation to Raoul. I hope you are wrong in what you say. I hope that I will be wiser and more decisive as the days go by. I don't have long."

_Oh, Lord, she is impossible! Two men! It's as if she were trying to pick a color for her gown! This one does me more justice, but I like this one! Men are vain creatures, and he thinks he should be flattered if she chose him!_ Upon dismissal, she nearly slammed the door. The hallway had been darkened by the housekeeper, as the rest of the house would be preparing for bed. Maids and valets scuffled about with last minute things before masters and mistresses retired. Fortunate for her, the duties were done. Nothing else was left to beg attention. Her own room offered much comfort, shelter. Though nothing in comparison with Christine's quarters, it tickled fancy. None more so than having another under-maid bring hot water in a washbowl.

All the taps running in the city produced nothing but water as cold as if freshly melted from ice. Greenish in color and odd in taste. From the bowl, the steam whispered into the air. Clean air she breathed in, as she splashed it over the whole face. Sopping up a clean cloth, Avril took advantage of the rare luxury, applying to all parts of bare skin. What started as sponging quickly turned into a bath. Using the pitcher, she got enough to pour and douse her entire head. Heavy and cumbersome when wet, it hung before her face. Droplets streaming down her neck, from her scalp, how deliciously hot! Though it burned, it was such delight. The soap bar, rubbed against the nape of her neck, create a thickening suds. From it emanated an aroma of sage. It didn't matter where the foam trailed. Down the back and front of her nightgown it ran. The longer lathered, the more aromatic. There was no room, there was no house, no mistress, no human upon the face of the earth.

Low and dim her candle burned, the only light in her whole bedchamber. To a gentle breeze it swayed. In the cool current, the flavors of evergreen and jasmine wafted from the gardens. And moonlight, playing against the window casement. . . _Breeze? _she paused. _The window's open!_ Soap and water flicked against her face, against the mirror at the sharp whirl of her head. Dismayed and baffled, the window had indeed been opened. The moon, nearly full, glowed bright, but shined upon no soul or shadow on the balcony. She was alone.

_It's him! Of course, who else?_ she supposed, heaving a fitful hot gasp. Throwing a dry towel round her shoulders, Avril grabbed both sides of the door, shutting them, and latching the lock. But the fact of it- that it had not been just opened, but left open. . .

"_Open the window_."

Her startle, unable to be helped, made her gasp. Against the bedroom door, he leaned without slouching an inch in posture.

"Oh, you villain!" she fumed. "What is-"

"Do as I say," he hissed, "open the window first."

"Why?"

"The house is quiet now. The only thing they'll hear is the wind, so long as you keep your voice as low as the wind."

Grinding her teeth behind her grimaced lips, she undid the lock and flung both sides open. The cool and the soft touch of it no longer refreshing.

"What is your problem?" muttered Avril. "Can't you at least give me warning, instead of slipping in and out like a specter?"

"Beg your pardon, did Erik frighten you?" he drawled. A leer in his gold eyes. Or like gold. Nothing had changed, except for the mask. It had always been black. Tonight, the man sported a pearly silver; catching the rays of moon, its surface glowed a little. What on earth possessed this change did not meet her comprehension. _Does he suppose he looks better in white than black?_

"You. . . you should have made yourself known before suddenly showing. I could've screamed."

"Oh, but you wouldn't."

"I can still scream," she threatened, eyes slanted.

"Why discuss this? It's trivial," he protested. "You've delivered my message, I saw. Very good. Erik is impressed."

"What do you mean? That was cooperation. . . Now, will you kindly give me a moment to finish with my hair?" From the corner of the room nearest the vanity table, Avril pulled open the changing screen. All the table, chair, and mirror now was covered. With the outputting light of the candle, however, she did nothing but conceal detail. Her shadow was still visible. Continuing ministrations to her soap-laden mane, she resumed where she interrupted.

"Why is that impressive?" she inquired.

"You're not the traitor Erik would've taken you for," he explained.

"I bought your silence, of course I'm going to abide by our terms."

"How do you judge her response? She seemed distressed, unless you say otherwise."

"What you say is probably about what I would say," retorted Avril. "She's thoroughly terrified. Whether it's rational fear or not, I best say it depends what you said. What have you done to that child?"

Catching the condescension of voice, she heard a rather quiet pair of feet tread closer to the changing screen's barrier. Facing away from him, a nerve in her throat suddenly provoked a swallow. Her neck was not to be trusted to those hands.

"Choose your words more wisely, mademoiselle," he warned. "Christine is not a woman to be disrespected. She is not your equal."

"In some respects, you're right, we're not equal," agreed Avril. "But we are equal in that we are both women. That might make me a better judge than most men. . . I do not say she is without her good qualities."

"Perhaps you mistake my meaning. Show her respect; it doesn't mean I force you to like her. For even I, Erik, couldn't force her to like me."

". . . I've got to say," her head cocked, smiling, wringing her hair through, "I've never heard anybody talk like you. It's very unusual."

"Why? Because it is incorrect?" he sneered.

"Do you think I care?" she chuckled. "No, it's just an observation. Believe me, I do not care what you do. But do you honestly believe you still have a chance with her?"

"Erik intends to try, but the right way this time."

"There's no right or wrong way, I suppose. All is fair in love and war."

"Have you never done anything right?"

"Not for as long as I can remember. Cats don't know any better."

"What?" he puzzled.

"Cats or rats. Yes," she smirked, glaring at his shadow in the mirror. "That's what you call me. Doesn't bother me. People have said worse."

"Obviously, it does," he said, "because you remembered it. To be what you are, you should have thick skin."

"Hope yours is as thick as mine." Removing the towel, her hair fell thick and stringy. Still damp but no longer dripping, she tossed her hair until it spread over her back. Now it was just a matter of a nightgown. The dressing gown, having sustained water, had practically become bare. "Well, as long as you're here, can you do me a favor and throw me my nightgown over? It's on the bed."

When expecting a predictable insult or anything else, she heard him move and hang the garment over the screen.

"Cats are selfish creatures," he said. "Driven to hunt and kill. They share their prize with no one but their masters."

"Point well taken. You're wondering whether I act of my own volition. To answer your question, yes, I do."

"You've been at your games for years. From what I've unearthed of your past, you've been following politicians and nobles all over Europe, a different name, a different disguise every time. And usually among the same set of people. Two men, one other woman, and sometimes others," he added. "Either unwittingly or purposefully."

"All your sources would seem to be correct," bragged Avril. Taking up a hairbrush, the tangles were tackled. "Shall I be passing along any further messages tomorrow?"

"No. Only if Christine sends her Erik a reply in return."

_'Her Erik?' Sad man, you_, she mused with a slight grin. _A man not in possession of his own is pitiable._ "Then I will await further instruction. . ."

Business concluded. And then, just as the room had fallen to silence, his hushed voice returned. "Shall Erik take any message from you?"

"A message to whom?"

"Perhaps your good host on Rue des Tuileries," he retorted.

"Why should I? Has he asked about me?"

"Erik released you when he specifically demanded you to stay in his house, and used his address for your postage. Of course, he's asked about you."

"Now that I think about it, I never did thank him for his hospitality that evening."

To that he laughed. In a way, it reminded her of Bertrand and the way he looked when filled with hearty air. Only this man possessed a smoother voice than Bertrand's. Without his reflection in her mirror, she could see any man with that voice. _Maybe I can see it now. If he weren't a musician with that voice, it wouldn't make sense. Yes, he would be a musician!_

"He does not know that mademoiselle and Erik have corresponded since that night."

"Interacted would be a better word. A brush with death by strangulation is not exactly your normal correspondence. By the way, if it's not too much trouble, my name is Avril. I told you, Erik, so you may call me by that when you wish."

Only on a couple occasions in their acquaintance, did she realize, that he had actually used her name. And it wasn't the ordinary introduction that average people make when meeting a stranger. In their world, giving one's real name could compromise power, identity, and life. Tracing the shape of his shadow through the screen, she pondered whether her slip had been dangerous. If she were a cat, this man would be a lion.

"If you wish," he murmured, as low as could be heard. A volume that might be called soft, of a quality that might be called. . . gentle.

"And. . ."

"Yes?"

"And, might I call you by your name?"

"What courtesy."

". . ."

"Alone and in private, you may use mine."

"Good. Now Monsieur Erik," she tipped a smile in the mirror, "be so good as to get out. You've given me enough fright to have plenty nightmares." The hairbrush was laid aside for the cream, which was rubbed deep into the knuckles and palms.

"Unlike your dreams, Erik is all too real. . ."

The breeze suddenly died from the room. Her candle flickered before completely stilling on the wick. A few strands of hair even fluttered with the close of the window. Yet, not a sound. A sharp enough change in temperature that raised the hair on her neck, with an icy sensation dropping down her spine, freezing the heart a moment.

* * *

"I'll be just fine, dearest," Melicent insisted. The falseness showed in every line of her face, and with slightly heaving lungs.

"I won't carry you home if you faint. Catch your breath," commanded her sister. Pushing her up against a stone wall, Melicent was forced to perch herself on the brick ledge of the old building to catch her breath. It used to be a bank, before a case of fraud closed it down. Every window had been boarded up. Nobody bothered about it, and the city did not think to let it out to anyone else since then. If given into the right person's hands, the place could've been made into a boarding house or else a mill. Businesses always fared well near the river. Honesty, however, did not survive in this quartier. Avril had been away from home at the time of the event.

Melicent began relating the story all over again, having forgotten she'd told it a while ago. Losing her sister's attention, the only other audience members were some scavenging rodents, mingling around a rusting, decaying barrel with a pool of oil leaking from out the side. By the smell, the contents must've been produce once upon a time.

"How are you faring at your new job?" she asked innocently.

"Just fine," sighed Avril, fighting a yawn. "It's rather boring having to do a bunch of nothing things for a fine lady all day."

"She is kind to you, I hope."

"She's a docile, little lamb. But what would you do if she wasn't?" chuckled Avril.

"If you were my younger sister, I should rally to your defense, but of course, you'd be embarrassed if I tried to do something like that for you. And you're always so cross if I ever pry into your affairs. As long as you like it and they treat you justly, then I trust you know how to look out for yourself."

"For once, your instinct is correct," agreed Avril, smiling to herself. "Thank you for being so insightful."

"Where is the house anyway?"

"Just outside of town." Truth. "A little isolated, apart of Paris proper, right in the heart of the countryside." Truth. "Just a younger couple. . ." Truth, half of it. "Foreigners. Some high family from Italy." A lie, right on time too!

"How very peculiar," laughed Melicent. "Is she pretty and very like the Italian women?"

_A rather stupid question. You don't know a single Italian_, mused Avril. _How would you know the sight of one?_

"Oh, yes! Let's get moving, shall we? It's getting chilly tonight."

Come eight o'clock, most sensible people in the less savory parts of the city stayed indoors. Unless their affair was something urgent, venturing out onto the streets never bode well. Animals prowled. Not those walking on four legs, not the hairy beasts with fangs and carrying rabies with their bite. They preyed upon any fool or his lady, but if they caught one glimpse of her, they retreated, slinking back into the shadow, and nodding demurely. Several ragged gentlemen that staggered along near the alley in passing, smiled at first. They thought they saw a couple unprotected sheep, but no, it was Avril and her sister. All filthy, holey smiles dropped, eyes falling with them, and cautiously they walked around. Not for one second did she take her eyes away from them.

Her arm pained at the fierceness of Melicent's grip. And not one breath she drew or released until the drunkards were beyond sight. Something unspoken had passed. For Avril's hand had suddenly reached for the buckle of her belt. . . and it rest there until they moved along. For as intoxicated they'd been, they were not foolish enough to tempt her sister's wrath.

"Perhaps we shouldn't continue these walks at night, Avril?"

"I only have so much free time, Melicent. I could not take you walking at any other."

"Are you not afraid of all these people? These. . . well, you know."

"I know these, all of them. I know where they come from, where they go, what they do, who they see, anything and everything. And they know me," she boasted.

"Is that why they passed us without saying anything?" Melicent whispered furtively, as if suspicious of someone following.

"The less you know, the better," Avril sweetly silenced her. "And. . . they also know Bertrand. Smart people here know our connection; they wouldn't dare make any offense against a girl who's thick with the society of the gendarmes," added with a simpered wink.

"Oh, Avril!"

"Be assured, you and Estelle are always safe here. If you weren't, I wouldn't let you set foot out after five o'clock or before seven in the morning. Now, don't try to rush along. Dr. Rodrigue said you don't need to be exerting yourself."

Properly chided, Melicent slowed her pace, relaxing against her sister's shoulder, looped arm in arm, longing for home and bed. But Avril refused the hint. The night had barely begun, and the charm of the pillow did not pull her as much as the smoky aroma of meat sizzling through the inn windows, and from those taverns. . . Wood-paneled, unpainted buildings, with plenty light burning in the window. . . just for the taste of a little brandy. Of course, the froth of a cold pint of beer was easier to swallow, but the other could raise her heart rate and warm her blood a little. Good drink made the night air peaceful, the darkness soothing, neither hot or cold. Nights like this which pulled the fog from the heights of the heaven to the earth, the world was not so friendly a place.

Waters were still. Maybe the occasional fish mouthed the surface from beneath, disturbing the glass-like façade. But the Seine wasn't a beautiful body like it had been, as are waters untouched by human civilization. Black, inky, barely alive. The current moved so slow, the river seemed dead. Gutters ran here, the sewers were directed here. And for some unfortunate souls, fallen prey to the beasts of the earth, this was Sheol. At least, tonight, Avril could spot no human form adrift. A little boy on the other side hurled a stone over the ledge that splashed noisily; other than that, the walk had been peaceful.

"Where are we going, Avril?" wondered Melicent. "I thought we were going home."

"Since we're this way, I thought we might pop in on a friend."

"Oh, what friend?" From her voice, unease and disapproval could be gathered.

"Well, acquaintance more or like."

Being moved without option to pay this one a visit, it was not any time particularly savory for Avril. For the house reeked of perfume and smoke. Corners and any little nook was filled. Floors never swept, shelves never dusted, and cushions never beaten added to the smell. Every once in a while, there was a maidservant hired, but she never stayed long. And the mistress herself did not take up any task worthwhile. Bringing Melicent along she'd hoped would make a visit short. As she tapped the knocker against the door, both stood in grave silence.

As it was not the first house call to ever be made, Vérène did not answer them with any expression of surprise. Both twig-like eyebrows lowered with a scowl. In her robe, a long and black silk, she'd been staying up, reclining with a cigarette before retiring.

"Oh, this is interesting," she muttered. "What do you want, Avril?"

"Give a couple poor, lost creatures a little shelter from the cold," she replied, batting friendly, sarcastic eyes. "So sorry to disturb you, but Bertrand is on duty this evening. Might I ask you a favor?"

"Oh, a favor from me?"

"And if you would let my sister sit down for a few minutes."

"Never mind that. I want to hear about this favor. Come on in, my sweet. You must be frozen," she purred, regarding Melicent with a smile. Avril, with a sneer. "You've come in time. There's still a little coal burning in the fire."

"How about some tea?" suggested Avril.

"Oh no, Avril, I wouldn't have your friend troubled," gasped Melicent. "Please, I am perfectly fine. W-we shall not keep you up long-"

"Tea is nothing," shrugged Vérène. "In fact, I should quite fancy some myself. Make yourself comfortable there. You, my dear," to Avril, "let's discuss that favor in the kitchen."

Taking a glance over her shoulder, Melicent made the best of what little fire and comfort was provided. Uncomfortably, she shifted between newspapers and useless piles of fabric stuffs to make room on the settee. All the poor girl wanted was to stretch out and lay flat. Much out of breath, she breathed a little loudly. Without fail, though, she would please and make trouble for no one. Folding both hands in her lap, fidgeting, Avril caught that small curve and blush. All pains and distresses laid to rest with her.

But Avril never returned it, of course. Indifferently, she followed the older woman to the kitchen. Her kettle clanked with the woman's angry movements. The current cigarette hanging from her lips.

"Alright, out with it," Vérène demanded. "What good reason have you two to come in on my night off of work? My new shoes gave me terrible blisters."

At the fringe of her robe, the repercussions of said shoes, of the woman's whole profession, glowed an angry red on both heels and the circumference of her big and smallest toes. Barefoot, she'd been tracking foot water, and with each step, more and more filth gathered on the soles. Funny enough, however, her hair hadn't tousled and her lips glowed bright red. Against such pale skin, the whole combination was ghastly.

"Don't fancy your dancing anymore?" chuckled Avril.

"I'm looking forward to leaving the public house, dancing to get coins thrown on the stage, have to break arms with all these other dancers who haven't got anymore talent than I have," she puffed. "What's this favor?"

"I need a hundred francs by tomorrow morning."

"What happened? You blow your savings on some bad hands?" Vérène inquired, without a trace of sympathy to her voice.

"It's my business," growled Avril, snapping up the discarded cigarette case from the kitchen window. Only three were left after she took one herself. "Have you got it or not? I need it by four o'clock tomorrow afternoon."

"This better not be trouble at the Chagny house, is it?"

"No, it's not to do with that. That's not my question. Have you got it or not?"

". . . You were going to ask Bertrand for it, weren't you?" she drawled. Thick eyelashes and unblinking eyes watched Avril, as she struck a match and lit. For a moment, her younger counterpart offered no answer, not even casting a grimace. The effort too much. Perching on the edge of the opposite counter, crossing her legs, Avril bided time, caring not for any length of her glares. Vérène had been wearing the same mask for years.

"It's easier to ask him for a favor than you," admitted Avril. "Right now, I don't want to waste a lot of time between his night watches and my day shifts over at the house, and especially before we take off."

"Hate to break it to you, but I haven't even twenty on me, at the present. Why don't you take a walk? I'm sure there's still plenty of sheep to fleece at this hour. Pick somebody off the sidewalk, or better go bother the jewelers for their stock."

"Bertrand said no more of that business while I'm employed for the de Chagny family."

"And do you always do everything he tells you?" sniggered Vérène. "Or do you fear his displeasure?"

"No, I don't," she replied, calmly. "When you start to fear a man's disapproval is when one starts to become more like you."

Quarrels with this woman were easily won, too easily. This beauty's prime was spent in the likes of the public houses, behind the counters, serving drink and partaking, and entertaining. The best of days were laughed, the worst days wept for, and life would not change for her in another twenty years, if she lived that long. Vérène knew it. Some few strands of gray were hid amongst her black ringlets, dyed so many times over. When it came to beauty, the spidery black widow was easily beaten.

But a spider will bite.

"It's too bad the man's engaged," she remarked. "I hear the young Comte has inherited it all with the death of his elder brother. It's a pity your appearance was so ill-timed."

"Why? The boy's not interesting, besides his house and bank account."

"Precisely."

"He's got the girl he wants, the girl he loves. He won't be made to look elsewhere."

"When has that ever stopped you? As a friend, and being under twenty-five, you've got an opportunity. You won't get them forever. Courting suitors is the easiest theft in the whole world."

"Maybe you like that game, I don't," shrugged Avril, not from distaste but boredom. The only thing distasteful about it was the same subject that Melicent would bring up. "I don't want to be married. I want all my money and my disposal, and I've earned it. Would you abdicate all you'd get?"

"If it were my money, no, I wouldn't," she nodded. "But if the man's worth his weight in gold, and could outdo me, then I'm not so proud, unlike you."

"That's the difference with us." Forgetting the tea and her sister outside, Avril exhaled long and carelessly. Eyes slowly wilting closed. "I'm so tired I could hibernate for a winter."

"Bertrand predicts those barriers will be much easier to conquer than you'd have us believe. After all, you've always had the raw deal when it comes to love. I am sorry for that. Your father was a waste of a man, and your mother. . . Well, she's happier where she is; don't feel too sorry for her."

"I'm not sorry for her."

"But she was smart."

"She's a leech, that's all," grumbled Avril.

"You don't need mothers or fathers anymore, pet. You need a man."

"I don't want-"

"Not now, but you'll need him one day. . ."

Secrets kindled in those icy stones placed in the two sockets for the place of eyes. And when in possession of secrets and skeletons, Avril noted that the older woman never looked her straight in the eye.

"I've never known you before to offer advice," said Avril. "And never so wise and motherly either," mocking in return.

"It's not any affection towards you. Perhaps I flatter you; you're a coiled snake with no heart, just instinct and practicality. Just don't give up on the lot of them without even giving them a chance."

While eyes were open, she'd long since left the room. There were woodlands, thick trees, and oceans wherever she was, not another human soul in sight. Vérène and Gaspar, neither of them, were there. Melicent and Estelle, out of mind. Her mother, forgotten. Bertrand. . . _Does she really suppose that? A couple, the two of us?_ Puzzled, all the peace of expression sunk from her face. It didn't strike with either disgust or pleasure, this thought of union.

Before Avril was allowed to dwell on it too long, Vérène's voice suddenly rose to shrill heights. Who dared storm in the door? Within seconds came the ragged pants of Gaspar's gaunt, boyish face and blond corkscrew curls. The young man hadn't even breath to make excuse; his urgent mission had left him feverishly pink.

"Where've you been?" he heaved, looking to Avril. "I've. . . been looking. . . all over. . . Bertrand sent me to fetch you over half an hour ago. . ."

"Calm down, will you!" Sliding from her comfortable position, she prepared for a death, an arrest, or a flight. "What's going on?"

"Your sister. . . she's been arrested." That alone could've produced an outburst. A family member would've decried it, blamed the world before suspecting her own flesh and blood, and begun scheming at once what to do for the accused. Women swooned at this kind of news. Her lips had furled and the head shook for want of words.

"For what?" she asked simply.

"Apparently, according to Bertrand and the officer on duty, she broke a boutique window on Rue du Rivoli, and they caught her. She was alone."

"A boutique window, you say?" she spat.

"Yes," nodded Gaspar. "The same place she bought those fancy gloves. Lots of furs and silks there too."

"That hypocrite, the little wench! Is she at the jail now?"

"What can you do about it?" said Vérène. "Wait, what are you doing?"

"I'm going."

"Wait, hold it!" Catching her wrist with her cat-claw nails, Vérène kept her from the door. "I'm not a nursemaid. I'm not staying up to watch your little pet there."

"Gaspar, take my sister home, will you?" asked Avril, without the tone of favor-seeking. No apology of inconvenience. "Just tell her I was called away on some unexpected errand."

"But-"

"Don't worry; she'll believe it. She'll believe anything."

"What's happened with Estelle?" he pondered. "She's never been in any kind of trouble before."

"I don't ask questions. I won't-"

"What are you going to do?"

Aiming for the nearest ashtray, Avril angrily flung away the end of her cigarette, reaching for her coat. "Whatever I do to her, whatever she had to face from the gendarmes will be merciful!" she hissed, slamming the door.

* * *

For being a friend, going on some years, he would've thought he'd know Erik by now. A man predictably untrustworthy, too eccentric a character to be made and figured out. Time and again, however, expectations were always exceeded. Amazingly enough it was that their friendship even withstood all that it had; so many things had come between them over the years: quarrels, suspicions, death threats, drastic differences of opinion. None had yet sundered the bare threads. But he would've supposed, after all that had taken place at the Opera, and suffering the loss of Christine, that Erik would've lost his will to live.

He pitied the man, only to himself. The young woman would not have reciprocate any of his feelings, even if the Vicomte had been there to snatch them. Somehow, for some reason unknown to him, the trapdoor lover continued to live. Though his reason for living had gone, not the will. Something within was driving him on. His routine of collecting groceries, the little he would get from the flat, had not stopped. This was not the end.

When it came the night of Erik's usual stopping-in, instead of going to bed, the Persian stayed up. Darius lost all arguments to being convinced into retiring. He lingered around the front window in the parlor. No candles burned. No books open. Reading would not even hold his attention if attempted. A mere cup of spiced tea sufficed for the time. The two parcels were left on the table of the dining room. Erik never cared for the idea, should there be any chance, of being seen through any windows. For no such house could ever be constructed without windows, above ground. Therefore, an empty cellar and a lake - just clever means of improvisation.

Midnight arrived, singing the usual twelve chimes from the drawing room. The only advantage with the pokey parlor was that he would have a full vantage of the door, when his visitor would slip in. But Erik, ever cautious and aware of civilization, never returned the same time every visit. One visit would bring him at midnight exactly. The next, he'd wait until ten after before making his entrance. With the next, it would be twelve-twenty. The next, half-past, and so forth. This rotation prevented anyone who may be curious as to his appearance, from being able to predict his routines. Since he came two weeks ago, half-past the hour, the Persian expected him at twelve-forty.

And he predicted correctly.

Both key and door moved and opened without any telltale sound. The shadow of the cape swirled round the ankles, and as always, the lapel was pushed up round the back of the neck. And the large-brimmed hat circled round the head, keeping his whole face in perfect shadow.

"Good evening," he greeted the masked man. It caused a start, but Erik did not react as emphatic as most did when caught surprised.

"You're up late, Daroga," he replied smoothly. And sarcastically: "In the dark? You should not be reading in no light. It's no wonder if you have problems with your eyesight."

"Your provisions are on the table."

"As always, Erik thanks you for your services."

"Just a moment, Erik," bade the Persian, rising up. "I'd like a word with you a moment."

"It is late-"

"What does that matter?"

"Erik will not keep you from precious hours of sleep," he sneered. "And Erik has nothing to say to you."

"Well, I have words," he insisted. "I'm worried, Erik. I know you let Christine and the boy go. It was the right thing to do, but it doesn't seem to move you to any remorse. Are you feeling quite alright?"

"What's all this concern for my health?" he chuckled. "I am flattered, Daroga."

"You're taking it all in stride. Very lightly. I'm wondering if either Christine or her young man is in any danger."

"They're free to live, and to live as they choose. Erik promised as much to Christine." Without any excuse, he turned his back on his friend for the dining room. "Erik has given them his blessing. It's not a vow foreboding any future disaster."

"It better not," warned the Persian. "Are you stalking them though?"

"There's no harm in that, even if Erik were, my friend."

"That's why I worry! Just the fact you watch them, that you go anywhere near them, is always a potential disaster. Are you never tempted? You ever regret your decision? Ever consider taking Christine away again-"

"Is it so difficult to believe?" he snapped, coming dangerously close to his friend. Both nearly face to face. "I gave her my word, Daroga. Do you understand? Erik gave his word, a promise. . . Erik will not go back on his promises-"

"What about the promises you made to me?" challenged the Persian, taking careful steps away. "You recall what you said to me when the both of us fled Persia? You promised no more crime, no more murder-"

"Who said it ever was murder?"

"What about Buquet, the stagehand?"

"It wasn't I," he sneered.

"And-"

"And the chandelier? Who's to say all that was?"

"I know you!"

"Erik kept his promise, Daroga! Even if it was my doing, it wasn't my intention. It wasn't my fault, for any of it!"

"You can say whatever you want. I don't believe any of it!" he bellowed. "I have lost sleep just considering the many things I've done to save your skin. I've even gone to the police to get it off my conscience, and it's all so outrageous, even they don't believe it. That's what comes of years following your shadow, pretending I, myself, am an eccentric. I can't live a normal life either! I used to have a life before I met you! Why can't you let them alone, Erik! Let Christine be happy; let her have a life. . . Erik!"

The poor man had ranted and raged, unburdened, and unleashed himself to no avail. For his only spectator had no sympathy to listen. Erik's eyes were out the window, and out in the streets. Perhaps late-night walker traipsed the sidewalk.

"Are you even listening to me! Erik!" called the Persian. "Could you at least have the decency to-"

"Forgive me," he replied, suddenly calm. With a shaken head, he added: "For I failed to mention, last night, Erik crossed paths with a mutual acquaintance of ours."

"Who. . . You don't mean-?"

"Yes. She wanted to thank you for your hospitality."

"That precocious, little thief that was in my bed?"

"Mlle. Chasseur is at this moment down at the street corner," he declared.

"She's what?"

The Opera and Christine, forgotten of that moment, he approached the window himself and peered around his friend's shoulder. It was another one of those nights. Gloomy, thick as smoke, and the light from the streets did not improve sight. But just as he said, there she stood at the three-way street corner. For not even a week ago, she'd been running along this way, inside the wrought-iron fence. Her back faced them; she looked up at a much taller figure. Was that something more to fear? She wasn't alone.

In uninterrupted silence, they observed her engaged in a conversation with a man upon a horse. Out of direct light, they almost melded into the fog. But it didn't last long. The girl could not stand out in the open streets of Paris, risking someone's familiarity. Within a minute, she'd dashed up the intercepting lane. The horseman decidedly came back up in their direction at a leisurely trot. While the young woman herself moved very clandestine, he held himself and the reins with nothing to fear.

"What the devil?" muttered the Persian. "He. . . he's an officer!"

Erik did not reply to that. His friend dropped the curtain so that it fell back into place, but watching through the side. The horse's hooves clapped the pavement with a great noise. Of course, if they had not seen her before him, his passing presence would've seemed more innocent.

"Got to hand it to her," smirked Erik. "She's got brilliant connections." Having said more than he wished to for one evening, he retreated for the front door. Danger had passed.

"Erik, did you say her name was Chasseur?"

"Daroga heard correctly," he retorted wryly. "Avril Chasseur. She's a rather intriguing subject of study."

"I didn't assume you would simply let her go. And I told you to keep her overnight."

"Perhaps with good reason we should have, Daroga," Erik sniggered. "But perhaps it was for the best. All I can say is, she's not about on errands for her mistress."

"What are you talking about? A mistress? Who is she employed to?"

"She's Christine's new lady's maid."

". . . What? Wait a minute! Erik! Come back here!" The Persian charged down the dark passage, ready to snatch his friend and shove him against the wall. Alas, he had only a doorknob. One fierce grip and turn, he'd found Erik had disappeared. Not a shadow or glimpse of him lingered about. Realization had come to late. It had gone and ran off with him in the night. . . the both of them. Throwing the door closed, his native tongue rose vehemently.

"_I'd like to be rid of the lot of you_!"

**Who intrigues you the most, of my OCs anyway? I know next to the Persian and our Phantom, they're all nothing to Leroux's own cast. I'll get to my next chapter when I can. Reviews will help, but in its own time. Hope you enjoyed it. I'm laughing. Poor Daroga, gets no more mercy from me than he would Erik:P**


	9. Chapter Eight

**Finally, the next update. This one took a little thinking because I was trying to introduce a cannon character with an OC. So it took a little longer. Hope it's paid off and your patience will be a little satisfied.**

**If you haven't noticed, unlike my other stories, fanfiction and otherwise, I have given Avril no physical description. She has long hair, striking eyes, and all around beautiful despite her poverty. But it was done on purpose. I was wondering if the readers care, or if you prefer, do you like physical descriptions? Erik doesn't have a lot: yellow eyes, sparse hair, no nose, and looks like death. Most of it is left to our imaginations, which makes him unique to every reader, thanks to the brilliance of Leroux. I have my vision of Avril; her look is not necessarily of importance. But if you would like a look at her, it's up to you reviewers. I can do either way.**

~Chapter Eight~

Another day, another night almost gone. This would make ten days more, until the ball. Ten and a half until a wedding. Nobody counted the hours more anxiously than either of them, for each their own reasons. Arms had crossed over her chest. Laying propped half up on her two pillows, sleep was impossible with the chill coming from the balcony, its doors open and curtains dancing. From the writing desk, a candle had already been burning for half an hour. Her generosity was going unnoticed, which would not have incensed Avril so much if his presence were not such an inconvenience. Such a late hour, burned out, and both legs numb from the walking, nothing was left in her, even to throw him out and off the balcony.

Just as any artist is at his practice, the hand moved slow with the pen, like paint strokes. No care taken would smooth his horrible calligraphy, however. It would start, then stop, pausing for several minutes, then resume again. Her teeth grated inside her mouth. Both lungs full of impatient groan. _What could he have to say? How much longer! You could say what you want to say in less than three minutes, couldn't you, instead of writing it for thirty? My feet hurt! And it's cold outside. . . Maybe I could scare him out by making noise. When I hum or whistle to myself, it always drives Gaspar up the wall. . . Well, it might work, but then again, Gaspar is as gallant as lion and strong as any boy could be with twiggy arms. I wish them all nightmares, for none are worse than mine. . ._

"Still awake?" he said, without the smallest turn.

"How do you know I'm awake?" she scoffed, defeated.

"You sigh every two minutes. . . Irritated?"

"No, I'm perfectly fine, counting every minute of the six hours I have before having to get up for another day's housework," she retorted. "Really, what are you doing? Is that a manuscript for your next play or an oration for a debate with the democrats?"

"The ultimate prize is never attained on minimal effort. . . or without patience."

"Well, I can respect that, but play on your own time, will you?" she whined. "I'm not in the mood. When I'm here, in this room with the door closed, I don't want to think about Cinderella, her prince charming, or how far apart the fork should be laid from the spoon at the dinner table."

"Ten minutes more should be sufficient for Erik to finish this," he assured. "Then you may have your precious sleep and your precious dreams of jewels and freedom."

"It's all I have," Avril muttered cynically. ". . . Actually, since you're almost through, there is something I'd like to-"

"Let it wait ten minutes," Erik cut her short. "I ask only silence."

At this, patience finally unraveled, and Avril sat full up from the bed sheets. Her cheeks a bright red. "Hey, it's my room, I will talk if I. . . Alright, I'm sorry. I am in a rather bad mood, but I had hoped we could be better friends than that. . ."

"Friends?" he puzzled.

"Yes, you know," smiled Avril, rising. "I'd like us to be honest with each other, and to be able to say what we think without lunging for each other's throats. I'm not as temperamental as I've led myself to believe. When you live a life like I have, the world is not to be trusted."

"Erik understands that, mademoiselle."

"I hope you think that you can come to me anytime you need a favor," she added, and a sweet smile for good measure. She stood behind him that moment. "Because you know I'd do anything to help you, in your situation. . . And I'd like to think that you could do the same for me as well."

"Because we are friends?"

"Of course."

"Yes, we do have an understanding. But it's not a friendship, it's blackmail."

"That's a bit of a nasty word," huffed Avril, playfully. "Couldn't you say it's somewhere in between the two?"

"Erik will be honest," he replied, replacing the pen into the inkwell. "You're no actress, Avril. Define what you mean when you say favor?"

No, there was no getting around him. And slapped with this disappointment, her face instantly dropped in sourness. "How willing are you to keep your secrets safe from the Comte?" she asked. "I'm beginning to think that as I am using extra time and energies to cater to you, it should be recompensed."

"In other words, money," he guessed.

". . ."

"Typical." For a man who could be angry, it was amazing he could react to the truth in a single word. Though it did not grow in volume, his voice, little by little, turned acidic. "You mercenaries are never grateful for what you get, sometimes with your own lives. Do not forget that I have just as black a hand over you as you do Erik. The Comte will have you arrested instantly, and your accomplices will see now jewels."

"I never go into disguise without a secret seam down the hem of my dress," boasted Avril. "It's one of my trademarks. I can look like any other lady, and then pull the seam open and dash to my escape. I've never been caught-"

"Of course not, the honorable Lieutenant Bertrand Boldvieu has always seen to that point," stabbed Erik. The subsequent silence pleasing him enough to grin, and all the more as her countenance drained of color. That same clueless, outmaneuvered frustration alight in those eyes he always managed to catch.

"How do you know about Bertrand?" she demanded. The eyes apprehensively wide.

"Though clever, you are not invisible," he said. From the mirror, he connected to her eyes. "No amount of darkness or fog can truly hide you when you walk in the open streets, or anywhere in the open. . . And never meet a friend except behind a closed door."

"I'll take that into consideration," winced Avril. "Now. . ."

He chuckled, standing back on his feet. For at first, she seemed to try and brave his approach. But all the truth of feelings lay in the eyes, heavily veiled by thick lashes. Indeed, if Christine did not exist, she'd have been handsome. Instead, his lip twisted in a menacing leer. Perhaps it was a smile. The upper lip, somewhat swollen, had false appearance. Just the same, she saw the blaze that was in his eyes that first night.

"Now. . ." he echoed her. "We'll discuss this favor." Within inches, looming overhead: "How much money do you want?"

She swallowed hard. "Five hundred francs should cover me."

". . . That's all?"

"Y-yes," Avril's tongue staggered. "That's all."

"And might Erik ask what does mademoiselle intend to do with this small fortune?"

"My business. . ."

"Is it?" If she had not moved, he would've walked into her, right passed her, and not even bat an eye. The flicker had been faint, but it was a hint. Regardless what she said, however stubborn, and bold her eyes, all wild animals feared the flame of fire. She looked into a golden blaze, rather unlike the eyes of ordinary men.

"Alright, then Erik will not ask," he purred. "What do you want the money for?" Oh, she tried! He wasn't the least appalled by her cheek. Reduced to childish nature, the head fell below his eyes and face; the hands had moved behind her back.

"It's for a-"

"No lying. You tell Erik to his face," he snapped. A dreading shiver shot through as one of his gloved hands grasped her by the jaw, holding her gaze level, making the neck perfectly vulnerable. "What will you do with it?"

"It's for a doctor," said Avril. "My sister has not been well for sometime, and the usual physicians in the city have been unable to make any progress to her health. I want her to see a specialist."

". . . Is that the best you can come up with, my dear? You won't gamble it on a card game or place any bets, will you?"

"No."

"Are you certain it's not a debt to be settled?"

"No- Yes, it's not a debt."

"Less than convincing."

"You already think me to be a liar. How would I convince you?"

"Indeed," purred Erik, still holding to her. "What have you for collateral? Erik does not give freely."

". . . Nothing," growled Avril, withdrawing from those five leather-clad fingers. "I have nothing, maybe except my own neck. You know what you could do, I suppose."

"Yes," he agreed. With no further word against it, she watched in shock. From an inside pocket of the evening coat, out came a roll of paper wad. Bank notes! By a dozen, it seemed. No thought or worry of ever being jumped on the streets for them, obviously. As simple as that, he produced five notes without a groan or remorse for their loss. But it was another thing entirely, the way it was bestowed. Taking her by the wrist, Erik lifted Avril's hand and placed the money in palm, curling her fingers back over them. As she was about to withdraw it, his icy grip did not release. For one long moment, he tortured her in this silence, in a long, unblinking glare. Not once he blinked.

"_Don't ever think you are out of Erik's sight_," he whispered. "_Erik will know if you lie to him_. _You wouldn't do that, would you_?"

"I think you've made yourself perfectly clear," breathed Avril. "No tolerance."

"No _more _tolerance."

"I will adhere to that."

Just the thought of the next morning, everything that must be done nearly had her shivering as she turned her back. Death in itself never succeeded in terrifying her; neither had any man before put this in her. But he did. Erik. A man of no surname, of no residence, of no country or origin, of no connection save maybe his Persian friend. Coming and going from one place without the least detection, a black mood lurking below his surface, and that black mask. . . with those gold eyes. . .

"Just leave that note in the drawer," said Avril, clearing her throat. In discretion, the bank notes were tucked beneath a pillow. "I'll give it to her in the morning. Is that satisfactory?"

No reply was offered. It could've been expected he'd simply go; maybe one last biting remark and sarcastic good wishes for sweet dreams. That rolled right off her back. For some reason though, he lingered longer. Though settled back into the bed sheets, an old familiarity of laying flat in bed, in his presence raised the hairs on her neck. And he moved closer until he stood along the bedside, the candle cutting a great shadow over his form.

"What?" she swallowed. _Good thing I'm not Christine_, thought she. _This is too close_.

"Your sister, you say?" he posed the word curiously, smiling. "Younger sister?"

"It's none of your business."

"Small house, two broken windows, no bell, and a wide slit in the bottom of the door?"

"Oh, why don't you go away?" Throwing herself to her left side, Avril attempt to block out this devilish inquiry. He knew her. "I don't tell anybody anything. Just go away!"

_Will he? What if he won't? What can I do? _she mused, almost sickened. _Bertrand always warned me never be alone in a room with a man. 'Their face and intentions change like lightning.' Is he one of those? Could I really wage a fight, if forced to it? . . . No._

The candle hissed, with the pain of his fingers breaking the meager wick, crushing the head of gentle flame. "Sweet dreams, _mon petit voleur_."

* * *

A feeling of safety pervaded the daylight. Not a single shadow to be found, and all the rowdy and ravenous predators that prowled in the nocturnal hours rested. But every fearsome, respected beast has its cave. This particular man did not advertise such a reputation, as his own friend with an unusual fancy for living underground. It wasn't any fine house but as ordinary as any, in a decent neighborhood with unoffending citizens. On these streets, the Persian walked with a level head but low eyes. A foreigner in these places were stared at and out of place.

Perhaps the only curiosity about his residence were the windows. All the curtains, wherever there was a window pane remained drawn. Privacy was protected and respected. Perhaps the man would respect his own wishes. The doorbell sang with a high pitch, responded to by a meekly old woman. Ordinary. Art was scarce on the walls. All the furniture tasteful and modern. No flowers anywhere. It was a bachelor's home; all commonplace. While the elderly lady attempted to keep him detained outside, the Persian began to tolerate less and less waste of time. Something was to be done about her.

Sitting at his own table in the morning room, coffee in one hand and a section of a daily in the other, he wasn't anything extraordinary. But it was, without a doubt, him.

"This is most irregular," he mumbled at the moment his eyes lifted from the paper. "Could you not have waited, monsieur?"

"Afraid not," replied the Persian curtly. "You are Lieutenant Bertrand Boldvieu, are you not?"

"Is this a legal matter?" he inquired, the paper creased downward.

"Yes."

"Well, I'm afraid it's my day off. If you wish to see another officer, or better the constable, I'd suggest you go directly to the station-"

"My business concerns only you, M. Boldvieu."

"What's the nature of this business? legal or personal?"

"Both interchangeably," smirked the Persian. "May we have a little privacy?"

"Why? The sweet little thing here is nearly deaf," said Bertrand. "I have to blow a trumpet to call her out from the kitchen."

"You may reconsider. I have some questions about a certain person, perhaps you know her: a Mlle. Avril Chasseur."

With a sense of triumph, a more grave, sobering mood came to fall. That congenial sort of smile offered to this stranger retreated back into the confines of that face, back into shadows. Lowering his paper to the table, picking up his coffee again, the young man dismissed the old woman to the kitchen once again.

"Have a seat," he instructed the foreigner. Without bothering to offer, a second cup was placed before him and filled with the strong, brown substance. Simply intrigued, just by one woman's name? The most intelligent suspect maintains an appearance of alliance, an outward desire to be useful to the peruser. Bertrand resettled in his own chair, and suddenly gravitated to his appetite for breakfast: a dry slice of bread and a dollop of marmalade and butter.

"What brings you to me about her?" he inquired, holding a rather convincing calm.

"You could say we had a recent encounter," said the Persian.

"Of what nature?"

"I'm not willing to divulge many details. For one reason, I suspect that mademoiselle is dangerous, and has superior connections. I do not accuse you of anything in that nature, but it did strike me curious to have seen you two together last night. You each parted on Rue des Tuileries. You were obviously on duty, and she went her own way, off into the night."

"So why did I not know, you ask? Or why did I not take charge and take her into custody?" posed Bertrand. "You insinuate a connection."

"Well, is she or is she not a wanted criminal?"

"Here in France or elsewhere?"

This had already exceeded expectations, but so frank, the Persian couldn't control the shock that dilated his eyes. "Better yet, what is she wanted for. . . as she is so sought after?"

"Avril Chasseur is a notorious jewel thief," boasted Bertrand. "She's probably offended all the aristocracy of Europe, it's no surprise she is so wanted. But she's also been known to act as a smuggler and a envoy for some small political groups with less than savory intentions against the governments."

"Who wants her the most?"

"Russia would probably be at the top of the list," shrugged Bertrand. "Although, there was some wrath boiling in Italy over a caper in Venice. But she's also been in Spain, Jamaica, and over in America, around New Orleans or somewhere. She tracks rich people, wherever they live and wherever they go for vacation."

"But she is French by birth?"

"Oh yes."

"So you seem to know her pretty well?"

"I know that little silhouette better than she knows herself."

"Well, you see, I'd like to know her a little bit better myself," declared the Persian. "Your information has already been an immense help."

"How might I ask did you two happen to meet?"

"Well, I wouldn't say we were properly introduced," he answered, with rolled eyes. "She was in my house; whether by accident or design, I can't say. But she was on the run, hiding from the gendarmes. Didn't ever get a chance to detain her, for she escaped the premises." The twisted truth in this explanation made him wince where he sat, hot with anger and embarrassed for his own shame. He should've dealt with her himself, not Erik. "I did notice her person to be loaded in jewelry."

"What you describe is not uncommon of her nature," Bertrand shook his head, sympathetically. "I'm sorry you had the misfortune to cross her path. For she leaves a long trail of heartache and turmoil. Her course has destroyed the peace of many people."

"And yet, she remains free," sneered the Persian. "What are you to her? a friend?"

"You're mistaken in my view and intent toward her, monsieur. You might more compare it to the way a doctor handles a mentally-ill patient. What do they do? They sometimes use this patient as a subject of study, for observation, and trial and error. A doctor doesn't punish his patient for his condition; they try to learn form them. That's what Miss Chasseur is: it's a study of the criminal mind. To some, she may seem a perfectly sane, cold-calculating criminal, but in other light, she suffers of a disorder."

"That's preposterous! Even from a medical standpoint!" decried the Persian. "She is breaking the law. What about the lives and property endangered?"

"Nobody has been injured, killed, or kidnapped, thus far."

"Does it make any difference? Or do you not comprehend the gravity of what she does?"

"If you knew her like I've come to know her," he paused, "you would have a better view of her."

"Maybe you ought to try. But I doubt very much the sanity of your theories, M. Boldvieu. This is not a disturbed person in need of observation and simple boundary. If she hurts someone, they will ask why was the police force not acting?"

"She will be stopped one day, in due time."

"Anytime soon?"

"Those details I'm afraid are internal matters. We members of the gendarmes cannot apprise the public of everything, you understand."

"Then what can you tell me?" challenged the Persian. "At least, tell me how long you've known her?"

". . . You're incapable of understanding," he replied thoughtfully. Pulling the matchbox from his pocket, he struck a match for his first smoke of the day. "You know only the grown woman, skulking about your house in the dark, running from captors, the thief. I know the child she once was," Bertrand slowed in pace, remembering. "Given more fair circumstances, she might've been a leader of female society, a great mind and intellect, a perfect rival to a world dominated by men. In her own way, she is, monsieur. I've come to admire her fine points.

"I met her the day her father died. Skittish, frightened out of her wits, and yet, a little ball of fire. Fifteen. She'd just witnessed his death. A group of men attacked them, she ran, and the man took the brunt of it. He was already half-dead then they threw him into the Seine. I can personally say, from the woman we all know today, she was a far cry from that little beggar's child. Bent over her knees, whimpering sobs, ragged hair falling all round her, she'd have been eaten alive if I hadn't found her. Of course, she blamed herself for what happened to her father. And ever since, life went downhill. Not long later, she took to stealing, on a small scale. Her main target then was the poor grocer. At first, it was all necessity; as she got older, there came new ambitions, new friends, the world got bigger. And with a little education, she had culture to her advantage.

"Mlle. Chasseur is fluent in a couple languages in addition to her mother tongue, with some rudimentary knowledge of Russian. And I know, we've been tracking her across the continents, across the Atlantic," he grinned. "She knows real stones from imitations. She has the ability to know anyone and everyone in a room full of strangers. Blends in perfectly. And good enough, she could appear and then vanish in a snap. . . It's admirable in one sense, but tragic. The world has been her third parent, her elder sister, a master, a companion. Nobody would trust her, and she trusts nobody."

"Except you?" the Persian replied, thin and slanted around the eyes. Bertrand merely exhaled, while his thumb fiddled with the end of the cigarette thoughtfully. His own eyes were in the distance, seeing no walls or the man beside him.

"Of all people, I am the single soul upon this earth who holds her best interests as close to heart as my own," he answered. Coolly, deliberately, unashamed - which nearly shivered the Persian down his spine. "You come to me this morning with all these questions; I wonder why this fervent interest for someone that you revolt against?"

". . . Whatever my intentions, it's none of your affair. I came merely to inquire after a history."

"If you suppose this information might be used against her somehow, monsieur, you waste your time-"

"I have so great a quantity of time -more than I'll ever need- I'll spend it on any pursuit I see worthwhile." Roused too much with distrust and disgust for this man, the Persian rose from his chair with an almost violent scuffle. This whole meeting had been a foolish errand. But it confirmed what he'd suspected in the early hours: this was no man of integrity. Not the integrity to uphold the law and ensure the protection of the Parisian populace. He was simply a man in love, no different than Othello or Macbeth. Tyranny. . .

"You never told me your name, monsieur," Bertrand spoke up. Nearly at the threshold of the morning room, he was stilled in his tracks. Though prepared for this inquiry, coy and smooth, the officer beat him to his own reply. "Nadir Khan, by chance?"

"How would you-"

"M. Faure," said Bertrand. "He told us you should've taken your little story to a publisher instead of the police. It's pretty amusing."

Swallowing venom, he breathed, trying to ignore the vile scent of his smoke. "Why do you assume I am he?"

"There aren't too many people of the Middle East to be found in this fair city. Hope you don't have any enemies out there looking for you; you're too easy to find."

"Don't worry about me. Worry about yourself."

Regardless whatever the young man may have said, even if he'd confessed to murder, it was clear to M. Khan that he had no power over him. Not even evidence could serve to any advantage. By all accounts, the gendarmes lost faith in his power of testimony. _Eccentric. Insane. Superstitious. Delusional. They think I am all that. Perhaps I am. I've been made that way by the people I come into contact with_, he mused bitterly.

Just as his arm had waved to call the attention of a cab, something out of place, almost completely out of the field of vision, caught his eye. Two houses over from the lieutenant's, a woman stepped off the sidewalk, disappearing through one of the gates that wrapped around the side of the house. A heavy shawl mantled a narrow, sharp pair of shoulders. Pasty in the face, which could only be said of poor in health. The hood practically swallowed her head, but she wasn't concealing, attempting any secrecy.

Nodding away the public vehicle, Nadir stepped behind a thick aspen growing on the sidewalk across the street. Watching carefully, he followed her shadow moving between two houses, going right, maneuvering the back ways and alley between the houses. But she stopped, disappearing behind the lieutenant's house. It was no opportunity missed! Suddenly intrigued, he found himself dashing back across the street, upsetting a pair of horses connected to a passing carriage, and crept alongside the shadow of the brick and mortar wall. What looked to be a wall, of course. But it was the battlement of the enemy. And he, a lone scout.

For he did not dare venture too close. He could not approach without seeing, but came close enough to hear them.

"I hope she'll be alright," said the young woman. "Is she?"

"Of course."

"Will this be enough money for Estelle?"

"Oh, you know?"

"Yes. Avril told me everything this morning. She simply tried to spare me the alarm."

"I'm so sorry you had to know about this. Really, it's nothing to be troubled about, Melicent," he said sweetly. "Your little sister just did something foolish is all. It'll all be righted soon. I'll see to that."

"Please do," she gasped. Her voice wavered somewhat pleading, unconfident. "I've always worried for her so. I hope that they'll be kind to her. It's the first time she's ever done something like this. I'm not saying she shouldn't be scared and treated as she deserves, Bertrand, but she's just a child."

"My dear, she is the farthest thing from a little girl, but of course, we shall deal gently with her. She shouldn't be detained for long."

"Thank you, Bertrand."

"Best you be on your way, Melicent. Shouldn't want to get you into trouble with your guardian." From around the corner, Nadir caught an eye bat a wink. The smile, spread like a syrupy coating. And it was sufficient for her. Back the way she came, the young woman disappeared again.

* * *

This evening marked eight. Tomorrow would be seven. And seven days make one week. Less than four hundred hours. There were plenty of ways to count down to the evening of the ball, but it all measured up to one event, to one woman's decision. Still, no replies returned from Christine. Or so it seemed anyway. But in all possibility, someone had intercepted the correspondence, if there was one at all. Raoul de Chagny would be rather interested to know if his fiancée entertained any second thoughts. But he was ignorant, unlike Avril.

This whole errand, this early venture into the evening was an errand on her account. Erik allowed his own shadow to be seen, but at twenty minutes after eight, the twilight still burned brightly enough to make him visible. It wasn't about being unseen though. Livid but unsurprised, he stalked through the underbellies, brushing the shoulders of passerby, ignoring the homeward bustle of workers freed for the day, and meeting no one's eyes. For the only eyes he intended to meet were the vixen's. And to see them widened, twitching, even tearing under his hold of terror. Clever she had been, but not enough.

He didn't have long to wait. With one quick survey of the house's exterior, Erik found only a single person home. Her shadow moved in and away from the kitchen window, hurrying with dinner preparation. A smile upon her lips. Her throat vibrating with a hum. The smell of her talents drifted from the decaying chimney and into the street. Perhaps she, Melicent, was the next best. It could be dangerous, compromising him and raising alarm in the city. All it would take would be one scream. A difficult thing to judge, but to minimize the likelihood, the masks were traded: the black for the white. Ivory, the closest color to natural human skin, seemed the safest. Making the advance, practicing a smile the best way possible in a mask, he raised a fist to the door. Three knocks.

**Mon petit voleur: translated to English is my little thief;) Uh-oh. . . Meli, dear, you better lock the door!**

**What do you guys think of Bertrand? I want to thank you Brambled13 for your praise, though I didn't create Avril for admiration. Don't know if this chapter has changed that opinion, but if it survives, I take it as a compliment. And to Samantha Michaelis, I've seen from your records that you don't write English fanfiction. Too bad for me, and I'm surprised you'd be reading my stuff, (don't know if English is your second language or what) but thank you for following and making input too. You two have been the most loyal in the following reviewers. Thank you.**

**Still own nothing. Red roses to you all! And be sure to lock your doors and never answer to a stranger...**


	10. Chapter Nine

**Back again! Still don't own anything. If we all had the chance to know Leroux when he'd been writing Phantom, I think the man would've gone underground like his character because his fans would've drove him crazy. Funny to think the book was out of print at one time, and reemerges as a brilliant musical. By the way, I will not use the musical version much in this story just to make it different from fanfic I've written in the past. Maybe a hint of it here and there. Personally, I'm more partial to Webber's rendition as opposed to the Leroux, but one could not have come without the other.**

**If you're as bored with this author's note as I am, don't bother. I'm done. Action. . .**

~Chapter Nine~

Something seemed not right at first sight of the house. Of course, never seemed quite right in any respect, but Melicent was usually busy at this hour. There was no dancing, flurrying shadow from the sickly candlelight inside. Venturing closer, nearer towards a window left ajar, there came a little shriek from within. Melicent. It almost sent Avril barreling through the front door; regardless whoever was inside, she prepared for them. A second shadow of no one familiar had been stirring inside. But before anything else could happen, she'd been stopped in her tracks by a sound of hysterical laughter!

For the scene in the window seemed only conceivable in her worst nightmares. The collision of worlds! There was dearest, darling sister, knowing no evil and ignorant of all that was wicked in her ways. And then, there was him! Of all people! The masked man had seated himself down to one of their miserly upholstered chairs, smirking and being all witty! Something he did or said had caused Melicent to shake fitfully and rock back in her seat. Mouth wide open, cheeks flushed, and eyes glowing. Nobody had entertained her so much before in years. It seemed as if she had not enjoyed good company before! With all the more reason, Avril blazed.

"Oh, Avril!" cried Melicent. "You scared me!" The door had been thrown open in abrupt force. At seeing it did nothing to intimidate either or throw him into disarray, she'd closed it with much less a racket. "You'd never spoken a word about your friend, Erik-"

"Melicent, you stupid fool!" growled she. "Don't tell me I'm seeing what I'm seeing. How do you know you didn't just admit a complete stranger with intentions? You're here by yourself!"

"Don't be so affronted, Avril," Erik cleared his throat, stirring not an inch from his chair. "I explained everything to your sister here."

"Explained what?" A clenched fist rested on a hip.

"Simply how your little Estelle's indiscretion put her afoul with the law, and we happened to cross paths."

"You are a liar!" cried Avril, enraged. "Melicent-"

"I'm sorry, dear," she giggled nervously. "But Erik has been perfectly understanding and kind about it all. He was just showing me a magic trick when you came in."

"Showing you a magic trick? You are a magic trick," she snapped at him.

"I thought we owe it to him for his mercies to our poor sister. Would you like to stay for dinner, monsieur?"

"Are you mistress of ceremonies here?" he asked innocently. "For Erik should not like to infringe on Miss Chasseur's hospitality."

"Infringement is the least you could do," mumbled Avril. "Perhaps, you should continue with dinner, Melicent. . . while I keep my _good friend _company."

Sensing all her wrongs and inconveniences to her sister, Melicent bowed her head reproved, doing as commanded. To outsiders, she could have been no more than a scullery maid in the manner she took orders from her loved ones. It had always been this way. Yet, Erik saw no sense of shame in her elder sister's treatment.

"What in the devil's name are you doing here?"

"It's rather a surprise, knowing you, Avril, to meet your sister, the very opposite of yourself. To be invited into a home and not glared at. . . For a moment, I even supposed her to be blind. Not one word about the mask, whereas you-"

"Well, I don't come intrude where you live, and give you a hard time. Why couldn't you have just met me back at the Château as usual?"

"Aren't you quite defensive?" he challenged. Suavely rising from his chair, he pursued: "Clever you are. . . But not ashamed of yourself for sending an innocent party as your envoy on a transaction with my loan?"

"How did you. . . Oh, you said. . ." Avril blundered. At the realization, a very hot, humiliated blush rose to her complexion. "So you know. . ."

". . ."

"Perhaps we might discuss this out back?" An unwise notion, of course, being there would be no witnesses. Better though to preserve her sister's naivety, she supposed, than to have her see her sister a victim of a madman. Yet, with confidence, she led the way, even walking ahead of him.

"Lovely accommodations," he sneered, glancing around at the cracks in the low ceiling. "Also recalling your own words, your sisters were starving and the living conditions deplorable."

She made no attempt to respond, to explain, or fight. That statement had been made when faced with the fate of arrest by the gendarmes, with a man holding each arm. With as much fury she felt towards herself for that, she stepped out onto the back stoop with the door closed. The alleyway reeked of backed up sewage, as the drains had clogged weeks ago. And the rats had become a common sight. If at all possible, every one of them had avoided having to come out by this way. But in case Bertrand came for a late visit, it would be a deadly confrontation on the front doorstep.

"I may not be so poor," Avril began. "I am a thief, after all. I do have money, but I had to spend it on something else-"

"You used funds given you by Erik, which you promised, was to go to a doctor to that younger sister. She is the sickly sister, is she not?"

"Yes. But why is she your concern?"

"_Because she is ill_," he hissed.

"I know how to take care of my sisters-"

"Why was Erik's money donated to a Lt. Bertrand Boldvieu? Mademoiselle even has the audacity to send her sick sister on an errand with money that should've _spent _for her!"

"Alright, I understand. You know I lied; you don't have to make that point any clearer!" declared Avril. "You want to spite me? punish me?" She paused for his chance to threaten, but he didn't take it. "My neck is collateral."

"You mean to say you've no sense of self-preservation to fight for your own life?" Erik regarded with a little surprise.

"I'm not afraid of you." Her little curve of lip enjoyed the taunt, bold and careless.

"Are you not?"

He had not intended to go back on his word; for never in his life had Erik dared approach a woman with the intention of harm. It punished a woman enough to even be forced to look at him. But not so weak as that, he started to uncoil the rope beneath his cloak. That alone should've inspired fear in woman or man.

Just to prove her point, or rather to provoke, she'd stepped down from the stoop, facing her back to him. Both arms had crossed. All the while, both cheeks swelled in a devil-may-care expression.

"I said I'm not afraid of you," Avril repeated.

"You have no fear of this?" The lasso came round the neck, and pulled taut. It wasn't cutting off oxygen yet. The grasp was with a degree of strength that his decision could go one way or the other. She'd not dare admit, for her own life, that her heart beat frantically.

"No," she replied, falsely cheerful.

"Erik will punish you, unless you can give him a reason not to in five seconds."

"In two words maybe?" she retorted. "Left pocket."

Limp and ill-fitting, her coat, when unbuttoned, hung limp upon her. It had been tailored and designed for a man's build. But it had concealed anything she could want hidden, especially her feminine figure. And the pockets had been made too large. Taking her word for it, a slender, gloved hand slid into the left. Nothing could've soothed his madness or temper better than the handwriting on the front of the sealed note.

"Christine. . ." he uttered in disbelief.

"Satisfied?"

Whether it did satisfy or not, it was sufficient to be released. He tugged the rope loose until harmless, then off her neck. She found his eyes solely occupied with the contents of the lady's note. For the first time, his eyes seemed actually soft. Instead of blazes, the light in them was a glow. . . No other woman could do such a thing to him.

"She wants to see you, doesn't she?" asked Avril.

"She will see Erik," he replied dryly. "She does not say she wants to, just that she will see me at a time and place agreeable."

"And that doesn't please you?"

". . ."

"To be honest, I hope this girl is something very special. I hope she's worth the world if she can torture a man for so long and still presume to think he still loves her?"

"You do not know her, Avril. For once and for all, Erik will ask that you not judge her." He'd been irritated, though his speech seemed robbed of their former strength. "Erik does not deserve her. . ."

"If you believe that, I'm sure you are," shrugged Avril. "It's all a bunch of fraud anyway. At least most people are perfectly blind and happier in ignorance."

". . . I used to think so too." Again, one of those rare occasions he'd spoken of himself in the third tense. Maybe he realized it, maybe he did not. In good moods, this seemed to occur. "It was her voice. Her kindness. . . such a sweet disposition," he sighed. "She did love Erik once. She did not know it was me, but in a certain way, she did love Erik."

"If you go into metaphors, I'll be taking my leave," warned Avril. Her interest, having quickly dwindled, headed for the door handle.

"Erik does not expect you would understand," he snapped. "You have never known the true nature of love, not in the purity and grace I've seen it. It's a happy illusion."

In a sad, shaken head, she smiled in pity. "You poor fool."

"Have you never loved?"

". . . I choose not to love," said she, proudly. "Well go on. She's waiting for you."

* * *

Having wrestled with dreams and an inability to sleep, she walked the hallways on her toes, careful to wake no one. In her shocking state, she was unfit to be seen: hair undone, full clad in only a nightgown, no robe, and slippered feet. Though the darkness created shivers, she'd not even bothered with a candle. Once she'd come to the ball room, there was no need for light. A bright moon came in through the windows. Every inch of the marble floor cast a glow. The vines and couple of trees outside the tall windows, and their innocent shadows, danced on the marble. The ceiling, rounded and glass, did not hide the moon or stars.

Awed and restless, she stared, sighed, breathed. Better memories occupied the empty space. People from far away lands, loved ones from the grave came back and lived in her most private thoughts. Voices, faces, words and songs. . . They numbered as many as the guests that would dance on the eve of their wedding. And they would dance again, the next day. The wedding. By then, only masks would parade the room and lifeless beings stare back. Raoul's relatives came for observation.

At times, she imagined the day. It would be a bright, sunny day. The house cluttered with vases. Not a single vessel would be left without a rose. Roses of every color, lilies, alstromeria, and many more species of flowers than she could possibly imagine. A white-cloth table covered in gifts. On another table, she'd see a cake. Music would play. People would pair off and waltz. This would leave her with Raoul. Raoul. . . all in white, the rose and baby's breath perched in the lapel pocket, smiling, the young mustache trimmed, and that sweet, daring kiss that would take place at the alter. . . Of course, such a thing was perfectly imaginable. It was predictable.

Suddenly, the spell of the dream broke. The sun faded and the voices of those people with it. All those imaginary vases lost their smell to a cold darkness. Raoul's face lingered with her a little longer, but his face. . . She didn't try to imagine it, but without reason, she started to see a shadow come into Raoul's face. Dark. . . Black. But it only covered his face, the upper half. . . How startling it caused a violent, momentary quiver. Just as she turned back, she'd found the doors had closed without sound. And the shadow whom leaned on the door. . .

"Do not be afraid, Christine. It's only your Erik," he announced softly. Nothing but his silhouette was visible. "Come at your request."

". . ."

"You did send for Erik, did you not?"

". . . Oh, Erik," remembering her voice, shocked but not frightened. "Oh, Erik. I've been so afraid. . . I thought I'd waited too long, that I was too late."

"No, my darling. As long as you need me, be assured that Erik will never abandon you."

A fainting spell looked imminent, at any second. Her eyes stayed open, her body erect. But she couldn't control her trembling. "You must understand. . ." began Christine, attempting a face of courage. "I do not hate you. I never wished you dead, and by your words to me, I had wondered if that's what you thought I meant. But, it's not true."

"You need not have said that," he nodded humbly, approaching ever so slowly. Timidly. "I know you. You'd never wish such a thing on anyone, not even your poor Erik."

"I'm glad you've continued. . ." Blushing for her bad choice of words, she changed the subject. "I hope that you have plans for the future."

"Nothing of the sort, my dear."

"It would be a nice change, wouldn't it?" A smile was attempted. "I'd like to know that you will do something that makes you happy."

Erik froze. "Is that all you summoned me for?"

"I want your happiness, just as you wished me happy. But I did not deserve it, Erik. Under the circumstances you wished me happiness, it hardly seemed fair. . . I-"

"Do not speak any such falsehood," he reprimanded firmly. "I wished you happiness and it is something much deserved. No one could deserve it more than you."

". . ."

"You are happy. . . Christine?"

"As happy as I can be," she nodded.

"Do you. . . ever miss the lessons?"

"Do you?" she wondered.

"I do. . . Perhaps more than you," he grinned sadly. "But it's no longer the same at the Opera."

"Oh yes, I'm sure it's better now," she shook her head, smiling. "I caused so much turmoil, did I not? Always the gossip, the sparring, the contention about me and La Carlotta? She will be able to resume her career again-"

"Carlotta? Indeed not, Erik will forbid it!"

". . . I hope at least there will be no more trouble, no more disappearances-"

"Christine. . ." sounding injured, Erik sighed. "Erik may not be like an angel, but all those ill deeds. . . those incidents-"

"Deaths?"

"They were not premeditated. It wasn't murder."

"I have been lead to believe many things, Erik," she confessed. "I would have approached you and asked for your explanation, but you did nothing to correct their assumptions."

"Erik cares not what they think, only you, Christine. . ."

". . ."

"It was my fault, but not. . . Not cold-hearted."

"You're not always in command of your senses," she lamented. "I've known you long enough to see that. But I believe you. You're not cold-hearted."

". . . You do not know what kindness you do to Erik, to allow him to see you tonight."

"I thought it a duty. For all that you've done for me, I cannot bear to keep back what I feel in gratitude to you."

"So you say."

"Yes?"

". . ."

"What is it, Erik?"

"It was the best of things that Erik could give to you," he said, embittered. "But you've thrown it away."

"But-"

"It's not your fault, my dear. You desired this life, to be with your young man-"

"I will not deny, but it was not as though I preferred him over you, Erik. Please, don't go. I don't wish to pain you. Listen, please. . . I knew Raoul from so long ago, and he was as dear a friend to me as you've been. It's natural for people to feel this way for certain ones. Sometimes we cannot always choose whom we love. . . Well, I. . . I could not sing and be his wife."

"Of course, the imperial position you're to take will not permit it. Erik did warn you of earthly love."

"If you think that I shall give up singing altogether, you're mistaken," she shook her head, smiling sadly. "I shall not. Whatever I do, whether it be on a stage, for small company, or myself, I will continue to nurture the gift you've given me, always."

Satisfying enough for a promise, but whatever she chose to do, he would no longer be able to remain in her presence, in any sense. If only to hear those strings from an instrument of heaven. . . He would not be allowed that.

From one storey above, there were muffled footsteps somewhere, probably a maid finishing her duties for the day. Raoul's relatives had not retired long ago. At so slight a noise, Christine nearly jumped, ready to bound for the door.

"No need to fear, Christine," he reminded. "We're quite alone here."

"I really should not be here, no more than you," she nodded nervously.

"He would not like it?" he retorted. "He need never know, my dear."

Of course, he would not have dared trespass without the confidence of being undetected to anyone. Both very much aware of their solitude, she shuddered involuntarily. "Erik-"

"Erik will never do you harm, Christine. And when he released you, he had no intention to ever go back on his promise."

". . . I believed you, and didn't."

"You are free, and you will remain free. . . as long as you wish."

"As I wish?" she swallowed.

"If it is your wish to give your freedom to your husband. . . so be it," he sighed.

"A wife is not a prisoner," she rebutted. But so mild and kindly spoken, Christine hardly ever made an argument. "Of course, had I been your wife. . ." Though she stopped herself, they each could finish that sentence within their minds. "Forgive me."

"What have I to forgive you for?" he muttered, choked. "It is the truth-"

"Please, don't go-"

"I'm afraid Erik must," he replied. "It's getting too late for you to be up."

"Erik. . ." Such a small, shy voice! It could be drowned out by a thunderous rainstorm or crashing waves against a rocky shore. But across a sea, Erik would've heard that plea. That little hint of desperation, unmistakable. And to be used with his name. . .

"Yes?" He turned round, all the way from the opposite side of the room. Manipulating his own voice, she heard it perfectly.

"Come back," she whispered. No smile, no glow of the eye, without joy or longing. But she robbed a man of his own will. "Will you. . . ?"

". . . If you wish?"

". . ."

"Another night then," he concluded. "If you wish it."

". . . _I hope_," she said.

* * *

Sometimes, or at least every once in a great while, the Persian attempted to sneak up. After Mlle. Daaé had been kidnapped, he had ventured down into the Communard Road to confirm what he feared. Once it became known to be the truth, he tried to wait him out. Erik caught on quickly, but let him suffer for twenty-four hours before taking any notice. Weary bones and a stiff back with a crick in the neck were not complaints to earn any of his friend's sympathy. And to say nothing of the impact of the man's hand across the forehead, at being discovered with Christine by the well.

Following him entailed risk. Ringing the bell at the edge of the lake pushed the man's limits. Daring to make any house call could be called suicidal. And in person, Erik tolerated very little. The only safe encounters happened in the confines of his own home. Tonight, however, no time could be wasted waiting for Erik to collect more groceries or to send him on any errands.

Seated at an iron chair and table, the Persian bided time at the neighboring café from across the square. Aside from the front door and the Rue Scribe gate, all other doors were locked from the inside. There was no other way in, his only advantage. By this time, the lamplighter on his stilts had already passed through many hours ago. All businesses had closed. In the dark, nobody passing by could see or care, if there were a single soul to be found after two o'clock in the morning.

Patience was soon rewarded. Catching sight, immediately, he sprung to life, bounding forward as quickly as possible. Of course, his rushing footsteps gave way his cover.

"Not yet, Erik!" he called out, heaving breathless. "Erik, it's me. Wait-"

"What do you want, Daroga?" To his friend's frustration, this didn't come as any surprise.

"A moment. . . and I'd like to speak with you-"

"Well, not here," he murmured calmly. "How about we go down-"

"I'm too tired for those stairs," grumbled the Persian. "There's nobody else here. Let me just say-"

"Be careful what you say," warned Erik. "It has been a long night. Erik is in no mood for your threats and meddling."

"What meddling? I came here as your friend."

"Presumably. Erik has no interest in your advice either."

"Would it put you at ease if I say this does not concern Christine?"

". . . Is that so?"

"Of course. . . You say I meddle, Erik, and I know you're aware of my activities during the day. What I have to say concerns a certain Mlle. Chasseur."

"What did you expect to find?" he shrugged. "She's a woman. They're all thieves and conspirators, Daroga. You suppose her dangerous?"

"Do you suppose I've stayed up a night and a half, interrogated a police officer, and waited for you about a harmless vixen?" By now, his eyes borne all evidence of the fact: wide and bloodshot. "Erik, I think it means a lot to say that I would warn a man who is a danger to society himself. _She is dangerous_."

"And?"

"And she happens to be working for the Comte de Chagny. She is in the same house, in the same rooms with Christine. This would trouble you, unless you and that girl were in some sort of agreement-"

"It took you that long to figure?"

"Erik, you could be putting Christine in danger. Has that not crossed your mind?"

"That has nothing to do with me," he replied snidely. Just the same as he denied responsibility for the fall of the chandelier, in the same manner, he defied him. "Erik is never careless, Daroga. Perhaps you should take up these accusations with the accused."

"This has to stop," vehemently, the Persian insisted. "You're prolonging pain and heartache, yours and Christine's. And you drag in a third party to continue playing your games on the poor girl. If you do not stop this, I'll go to the Comte and tell him everything. He's the one person on this earth who will believe me!"

"That would be a bad lookout for you, Daroga," said Erik, shaking his head. "You may hurt someone if you were to do so. What if Christine does not wish for the boy to know?"

"I'm not worried about her being embarrassed and whatever that boy may say. Her safety means more than her personal feelings. And speaking of a bad lookout," he paused, "why did Avril Chasseur ask you for money? Did she tell you how she spent the money?"

This had the impact, just had he'd hoped for that moment. Erik turned with suspicious eyes. Absorbing the surprise, he studied his friend through the depths of his sleep-deprived countenance. "Yes," Erik answered cautiously. "What's the significance of that?"

"She gave that money to him, Bertrand Boldvieu, is his name. But you know that?"

"Of course, I saw. I watched you, in and out of the house."

"What was the money for, did she say?"

"She told me it was for a doctor's bill, to be paid for a visit to her sister, the weak and pale girl skulking around the back of the house. It was really asked to pay for bail for her youngest sister."

". . . So she said?"

"Well, you seem to know," retorted Erik.

"Boldvieu took the money from her sister, Melicent. But he's made no use of it. The youngest sister is still in the city jail at this time. Why else would he ask for money from her? It's either he's lying to Avril or she's lying to you."

Was it anything to him that people could lie? Him, the Angel of Music and the Phantom of the Opera? Could he be deceived? Nobody yet had succeeded in that endeavor. Frauds know their own kind.

With a renewed sense of darkness, too shortly overcome after a visit with Christine: "You say you know where she is?"

"As of five minutes ago, I know where she is," the Persian replied, puffed with pride as well.

"Take me to her."

Pulling his cap a degree lower, he gloated: "I thought so."

**Finally, Christine and Erik meet again. . . I had been looking forward to this, in different ways. Sorry, I'm not going to say one way or the other. Did my take of Christine meet your expectations?**

**Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice. . . Avril, hand at the level of your eye!**


	11. Chapter Ten

**Sorry for the long delay. This chapter gave me a terrible writer's block-ache. When you're done, you'll probably think like I do, this thing is a bit of a mess. It'll start to clean up with the next couple of chapters. I wanted Erik and Nadir to see another side of my nasty antagonist. Didn't turn out really like I wanted. One of my reviewers even asked me where I was going with this. Well, approaching the engagement ball, foreshadowed in the prologue, Avril's role as mediator between Erik and Christine grows more and more vital to the story. And Avril herself, who's seen only the bad side of life, will start to see a little light coming through.**

~Chapter Ten~

By mere happenchance, they'd found her. But once someone took an interest, she became more human and fallible. An easy target to follow, to judge, and eventually subdue. It had been all the Persian's hope to see her captured and arrested by a real, untainted member of the gendarme force. Clearly, there would be no justice to be dealt her within the boundaries of the law. What else could be done to punish her? Jail cells would have no effect to improve the young woman. Of course, his friend could easily employ his own methods of justice, which caused him some anxiety- and to bring him along. . .

While he feared for her own sake, he felt, for once, equal with Erik in his anger. They found her exactly where he'd spotted her. Looking through the window, through the shoddy, moth-eaten blinds of the nearest inn, she was the leopard in the tree, safe and secure, scanning her savannah: an animal in its natural habitat. Lazy in the eyes, placid in countenance, disinterested in the noise and commotion of late-night drinkers and card players. All alone, perched right at the bar, hunched about the shoulders. . . She wasn't waiting for anyone. As always, her apparel disregard the propriety for skirts, petticoats, and all that was feminine. For some time, she nursed a half-empty pint of brown liquid. The longer she indulged, somehow her features grew more and more depressed. No one spoke to her. There plenty of suspicious glares and cautious remarks between the innkeepers. But it all turned out for nothing they feared; surprisingly enough, she paid for it. Some bank notes were dropped in front of her, and without word, she disappeared from sight.

Like any astute evader, Avril took leave by a back entrance. Queuing in quickly, both men pursued. There was no hurry. It would've been dangerous to them all to confront her on the streets. Walking in respectable, sleeping neighborhoods, anything out of the ordinary would not have gone unheard. If she screamed - like most women would when followed by men through dark streets - the consequences were anyone's guess. They'd have to catch her alone.

Her rather solitary situation didn't seem to intimidate her. Confidently and silent, she walked. Now and again, Avril looked in a different direction, either behind or to the side. Her pace wasn't at all brisk, nervous. Her possible destinations were perplexing the Persian, while Erik wished only silence with him.

They came to one street, one of the boulevards running through the heart of downtown. An island of green hedge and grass growing in the center. Then, thoughtful and ruefully, Avril paused and looked toward a house on the right side. For the longest time she was frozen in that one spot; her eyes full upon a white façade, a dozen windows, and an iron grate leading up the stoop to the door. Nothing seemed special about the house, no more than the abode of a well-off bourgeoisie family. Nadir almost feared for the household a moment. Why on earth should she be interested in this building unless she were planning on breaking an entering. He almost sprang forward, if not for Erik, holding him in the shadow of the alley by a brute hand.

Eventually, with the passing of about three minutes, movement! And instead of stalking toward one of the low windows, looking for an entry, Avril went right up the steps to the door! And even more shocking, the doorbell was rung!

To the face of a sleepy maid, still in uniform, the door opened. Avril was recognized and admitted. For whatever reason she came, she had not been expected. The house remained dark and quiet, like a child bidden to hush. If there was any movement within, it was discreet. But it hardly seemed fit to stand outside and wait for anything to happen. Maybe she knew the owners, maybe she did not. Maybe they were friends. Erik had relented the grasp of his hand, and the Persian took off across the boulevard. In the same fashion as Avril, he rang and perplexed the more maid out of her senses.

"Begging your pardon, mademoiselle," he said. "But I just saw a young woman admitted not five minutes ago, Miss Chasseur."

"I do not know that name, monsieur." Blinking and irritated she seemed, but innocent in reply. "A young woman is here, but-"

"I'm sorry to intrude at so late an hour. But I really must see this woman, it's urgent."

"The master will be home soon."

"I will be gone before he comes," promised the Persian.

It probably wasn't the promise as much as his persistence that earned him entry. He was offered no service, no taking of the hat or coat. Just another routine house caller for her, someone who could've learned a great deal from the more polite, hospitable Darius.

"She is in the drawing room," she replied curtly.

One gas lamp burned dimly in the hallway leading to the staircase, but just beyond the threshold, she led him. What struck him the most peculiar, however, was the music.

Music!

_At this hour of the night? _he pondered. For the exception of the Phantom himself, who would sit down to a piano? The night owl did not sing. The melody, soft and menacing in its own way; no song that he recognized anyway. Funny though, it never struck him that the same arrogant thief to use his flat as sanctuary and dance across Europe by many different names would not be without interests, hobbies, talents other than deceit. The gaslight was burned minimally, and kept on low. Not a single sheet of music had been propped. Both the hands danced like two partners and sang the perfect duet. The eyes glazed into a blankness; thoroughly engrossed and undistracted, he could've sworn he could see Erik.

"What is it, Jossie?" muttered Avril.

"A gentleman here to see you, mademoiselle," she answered. When she had been anticipating the warning of the return of the master, eyes darted toward him. And a rather genuine, or supposedly feeling smile alighted her grimaced lips.

"Ah, Daroga!" cried she, with a laugh in her voice. "What a pleasure! I never expected to be so honored as to entertain you after you have-"

"The pleasure is all yours," he interrupted. "Mademoiselle, I. . . Please, will you excuse us?" he insisted to the maid. Gladly so, she sauntered out and closed the two doors.

"You may call me Avril. Our mutual friend knows my name; I'd just assume you would know."

It would take many minutes to broach the subject, a luxury that had been wasted enough. Stepping around to the curve of the piano, in full sight of her: "Resign from the house of de Chagny."

"Excuse me?"

"Whatever you're doing, or intend on doing, I strongly recommend you hand in your notice to de Chagny and go quickly."

"I take my orders from the Comte," sneered Avril. "If you're so set on this idea, why haven't you just gone to the boy himself?"

"Look here-"

"Now don't work yourself into a heat, old man. Listen. The best thing you might do, for yourself, is to forget about my late night visit and pretend nothing happened. You don't want to have anything to do with my affairs."

"I'm afraid that's no longer my choice, mademoiselle. I wish I could. For I'd gladly wash my hands of this if you simply went on your way, but this is personal. You might call the Comte de Chagny a fond acquaintance of mine. I know him as well as his fiancée; they're good people and about to be happily married soon. And they've fought hard for it. I'm not so much a friend of theirs as a protector."

Avril's hands had stilled until the music of the struck notes faded. Apathy colored the eyes, but she still raised them to his.

The Persian regained a little breath: "What is it you have to gain?"

". . . What did you ever do to make your sense of justice so zealous?" she retorted. "You're not a friend, you say. But you have their interests at heart and just so happen to care for them so much?"

"It's a sense of humanity."

"What I mean in asking is: what have you done that was so terrible in the past to make you grow wings and fly like their angel in midheaven? You're not like your friend."

"That's just it, Avril. He is a friend, an old friend. He once did me a service in my home country. We owe our lives to each other in different ways. That doesn't necessarily make up for the truth of his character. I did wrong by keeping silent while he fell hard for that girl. I waited until the last minute before intervening. I helped the Comte rescue her from his influence. . ."

"He's not out to get her, Daroga," Avril shook her head, denying it with real sincerity. "He's not interested in revenge, and he won't take her by force like he did last time, to do any injury. . . Yes, he told me so."

"And that doesn't even shock you?"

Avril's mouth had opened, and then, someone else spoke: "_You've underestimated her_." It seemed to pass through her head, as if the voice had slipped through one ear and stole her next words. After having heard enough of it last night, this second reappearance so early in the morning nearly made her groan. The Persian looked over her head, and with shock to see Erik instantly take form in the shadow of the opposite door to the salon.

"Erik!" gasped he.

"Why am I not surprised?" muttered Avril. "If I didn't know any better, he seems everything like an admirer would be."

"Don't flatter yourself," Erik reprimanded.

"Hope you found her well," said she, smiling dryly. "Just as you expected?"

"You have done well tonight," he admitted. "Without that little note, I would not be feeling as merciful."

"Oh dear, what have I done this time? You know, the last time I was alone with you two, I was tied to a chair."

"That's probably the least you have to be afraid of," said the Persian. "Erik, if what you've told me is true, and you've lent money to this girl, I wouldn't expect you will be seeing anything in return."

"I fully intend to repay, Daroga," replied Avril, not in the least offended. "Hard as that may be to believe, _I am in the process of a payment_."

". . . Please don't articulate." Shaking his head, and both hands above his head, the poor man declared forfeit. And not far off, gleaming in the light of a dim candle on the sideboard, a liquid of a beautiful color sat on display. Without bothering to ask, Nadir served himself.

"Could I offer you anything, Daroga?" chuckled Avril. "Some bourbon perhaps?"

"You owe me," he excused.

"You must forgive him," replied Erik.

"For what, ill manners? I've forgiven much worse," spouted Avril. Suddenly, as if spurred by the mood, the music commenced on a different musical score. Dark in melody, and its execution one of exasperation. Johannes Oleg's: _Prelude in G Minor, Op. 23, No. 5. _Of course, no one else could've named it instantly as Erik. And the hands themselves, surprisingly, were not untaught, uneducated. A little coarse in sound, however. He studied them a moment until he could take it no more.

"If you're going to assault the instrument, at least, don't insult the composer," he growled. "These are flats, not sharps." A glove descended upon her own hand; black and slender, it looked more as if a spider clung to the top of her left hand. And in the same way, he readjusted a couple fingers on the right. Her sound improved. As it begun to pick up its pace, the realization came to him slowly. There was no music open, none at all.

"How did you learn to play?" he mused aloud.

"Lessons," she answered simply.

"How did you afford them?" rejoined the Persian. "You steal them?"

"Yes."

". . ."

"What? Those things can be stolen too. An old, wealthy friend of the family gave lessons to. . . well, someone else was paying for them. Meanwhile, I was eavesdropping from the window. The rest I eventually acquired on my own. It's been useful over time. When I have had to entertain a company, it helps a rather unoffending, average society girl to blend in."

"Would've thought the lieutenant responsible for that."

"Bertrand doesn't pay my expenses. He keeps the creditors from hounding my sisters and I from dawn until dusk. That's more than decent of most gentlemen-"

"And yet, there's still no word from the younger sister," said the Persian. ". . . You do put a good deal of faith in his capabilities."

"He's never been disloyal." The tone expressed a confidence, though not her own. Erik lost complete interest in the destination of his generous donation. The music was not entirely amateur.

"Do you make it a habit of borrowing and never returning?" continued the Persian, taking a long swallow. "Because you know, some people do not appreciate that."

"You're making a useless pursuit, Daroga," said Erik, shaking his head. Detaching from the side of the instrument and its occupant, he faced him, even coming close enough to whisper. "Let the girl alone."

"Le- let her alone?" he stammered.

"Why don't you stay out of things? Erik is more than capable of looking after her, and himself," he sneered. "If you want no part of this, then keep out. Go and keep company with your dear friend, de Chagny."

"Who's your friend here!" he snapped. "What are her intentions toward Christine, and the family? You don't know if she might be planning to rob them, or kill them!"

In the lack of Erik's own defense, Avril readily substitute. "_I am not known for that, my dear Daroga_," said she. "If I were, you wouldn't have been left to find out."

The two faces she caught at a side glimpse made her break into a smile. Just the utter contrast between the two men at the suggestion: one made wide-eyed, aghast, and slack in the jaw to horror, and the other. . . grinning, almost ready to break into a laugh. Perhaps it was too impertinent and a ghastly thing to make a joke about, and regardless the reaction, it didn't seem to surprise either one of them.

"Is such a thing possible?" muttered the Persian. "It's like your mind in the body of a woman."

"Is that the most terrible thing in the world?" chuckled Avril, a remark made to neither one in particular. _All these allusions to evil and a lawless past, _she pondered. _What sort of things does he hide? I doubt that mask must be very comfortable. Is it so terrible he sleeps with it on, and wearing it wherever he goes? _In truth, nothing was known about him, or either one of the men. One had a past, while the other covered over his sins. Who was to say? Or was it the both of them were hiding and covering for each other?

"You never mentioned this," observed Erik, his shadow still looming behind.

"Mentioned what?"

"This liking for the piano."

"Just assumed I could not afford to learn-"

"Or assuming you knew nothing better than your trade," he finished. "You've been poorly taught-"

"I taught myself-"

"Which proves your inability!"

A few jarring chords clashed. "What do I care, Mozart? I didn't ask your opinion," she snapped. "I'm not practicing for the Garnier's orchestra, alright! Let me amuse myself."

"Don't believe you'll be amusing yourself much longer," said the Persian. His sight turned toward a nearby window. The sound of horse hooves and a rolling carriage came to a stop in front of the house. For a moment, it was silent, until its passengers emerged from its confines. High heels and patent leather now clipped against the pavement. "Perhaps we should all be taking leave while-"

"We? Why should I?" said Avril, rising from the instrument. "As much as you are offended by my conduct, Daroga, it's you that is meddling in my affairs. Apparently, I can't stop you from that, but leave me to my own devices. . . Where is Erik?"

Glancing back and around the room, they'd found him already gone, or at least absent. Knowing enough, Avril could not suppose she was alone simply by not being able to see him. With his friend, it was not as easy to extricate him from the salon. It took a little persuasion, some gentle shoving, and an unlocked window to scoot him out. Their presence would've been unexplainable. Giving these people a good reason for being in their house herself sapped her own energy.

Unfortunately, this could no longer be avoided. The maid admitted master and mistress through the front door. Some whisperings flitted from the hallway. To the best of her ability, Avril made use of the long mirror hung above the mantle: smoothing hair, pulling the collar straight, and tugging at the waistcoat. No different a routine than if she were preparing to meet her sweetheart. All the while, a scornful reflection looked back at her. In the old days, these feelings were nonexistent. They'd not been strangers. There had been no formalities to follow. No reasons for extra politeness. After all, how does a daughter greet her mother after long absences?

"Oh Avril," she murmured. "Isn't this a surprise?"

"Yes," nodding in answer.

"What are you doing here so late?"

"Well, you and your husband have just returned from a soiree. It's as good a time as ever," shrugged Avril. "Thought I might be a little welcome since he'll be retiring anyway."

"You are always welcome, my dear. And as you never come visit unless it is important, the hour does not matter." She reached for the velvet chord hanging near the mantle.

"No. Don't call for tea, Dionne. Please." Having had the invitation, she took to a chair as far away from the black hole in the wall as possible. Her mother had taken a chair nearby, hoping to pretend this talk was just as it was in the old days.

Indulgence had not really done the older woman any more justice than destitution. A cook, a dressmaker, and a bank account formed the figure seated before her. Having come from a fine party, the best of the woman's wardrobe was on exhibition. Every yard of material, a navy blue velvet. A row of diamond pendants decked a fine bosom, and pink taffeta roses sewn into the low-dipped sleeves, resting just off the shoulders. The fashion was enough to captivate her, as a thief, made greedy in her tastes. But as a daughter, they were not the sole objects of fascination. Instead of being robbed of color -as age will usually do- there was a wealth of youth and vibrancy to that high-boned cheek. Long, cow-like eyelashes framed a simple pair of green eyes; without them, such eyes would've been commonplace. Gone were those long, sleepless nights, making the whites eccentrically red. This was a rare woman that, come the age of sixty, would still look very much the same as now. The only true indicator of age were in the minute lines round the mouth. Even in the hands as well, with the skin slightly shrinking away, revealed more distinctly the blue veins. The progression of time had slowed considerably, all due to her escaping another life and world of another time.

"How are Melicent and Estelle?"

"Just fine," smiled Avril. "Just the same as always."

"You're not just saying that, are you? Are you sure you're doing fine?"

"We've no need of funds, Dionne," she insisted, shaking her head, flattered. "We've been managing quite well for some time. We have a respectable establishment, and us women are not without good Samaritans for neighbors to look out for our wellbeing."

"Where do you live now?"

"Not far from here, round the Montparnasse neighborhood. It's a cozy, little place."

". . . And has Melicent or Estelle been presented anywhere?"

"Presented? You mean presented, as in introduced to society?"

"Oh, Avril. . ."

"Girls of lower classes are not presented anywhere. Their mothers do not send them to parties in ball gowns-"

"Avril, please, don't be neglecting that. After all, Melicent is sixteen-"

"Eighteen," corrected Avril, her lip thinning of its cheery curve. "Melicent is eighteen. And Estelle is fifteen. I doubt she's ready for any introductions."

"I wouldn't be so certain." Like a mother, she attempted some humor. "Why, your father and I were completely taken with each other, and I only fourteen. Estelle will not be a baby forever. And Melicent, dear girl as she's always been, will be heartbroken by every man within a two miles, unless she learns a little flirtation herself."

"I would love to teach her, but there's not a single man of my acquaintance or of the whole of Paris whom I'd entrust with a lamb like her. Besides, she's a bit plain-"

"Oh, hush you!" she rebuked. "She looks so much like your father. I never thought your father a plain creature."

"Well, it certainly didn't preserve your opinion of him. . ."

". . . Don't be so cast down, dear one. You know I loved your father dearly. . . He just didn't appreciate what he had, Avril. He wasn't an angel. You knew his faults too, you know."

". . . Yes."

"Please, let's not speak of him. That was so long ago." Brushing a few fingers beneath her chin, Avril nearly withdrew from the delicate hook of the perfectly manicured nails. To think, the woman had crossed the room and touched her with all motherly gentleness and sweetness. But she defied in refusing to show her eyes, craning her neck to look up at her mother.

"So tell me, love, what troubles you?" Thankfully, the bourbon at the sideboard bid her away, and while it would've tasted delicious at that moment, a dutiful daughter feared a mother's suspicion. Just the same way she tried to hide habits from Melicent, she felt bound from letting on anything to this woman.

"I thought I should tell you," began Avril, "that I'll be leaving Paris in a week's time. Don't know if we will ever return, but I will be taking Melicent and Estelle along."

"Oh. . ." she gasped. "Wha- A week?"

"Yes, and no more." Preparing for an outburst, of a quarrel or hysterics, Avril stood from the comfort of the high back and arm cushions. On her own feet, at least, she didn't feel so small that she could be eaten and spit back out by her rivals.

"A-and where will you go?" stammered she, grasping her waist. The complexion pale and distressed to a deathlike state nearly.

"I don't know just yet."

"How could you not know-"

"It doesn't matter, Dionne. All matters will fall into place upon our departure. Maybe, with time, I will write you, just to inform you that we're all well."

"Why so sudden? I hope no one's in trouble."

"No."

"Why could you not have told me this sooner? Could you not have at least given me more time to bear this-"

"What is there to bear?" Avril whispered. "What?"

Having turned her back, a handkerchief was drawn frantically from the bosom. Pressed to her lips, the cloth shuddered with her sobs. Tears came near; her eyes always narrowed to slits, just as Avril always remembered, in an effort to stifle them.

"W-will I ever see you again?" she moaned.

"It would be best if we didn't," replied her daughter. "But it's not that great of a loss, Dionne. You have children here."

"That doesn't make you and your sisters any less my own!"

"You're wrong."

"Why can't you stay! You're my daughter, my firstborn!"

". . ."

"Avril!"

Heavy footsteps thundered from the direction of the stairs. Yet, there she stood in the same place, not turning her head from her weeping mother. Entering the room, she refused to observe the ferocity glowing in the handsome, un-weathered complexion. Indeed, by a woman's standards, the second husband had exceeded the first.

"Dionne, what's- What on earth are you doing here?" he snarled, upon first sight of her.

"Do I need a reason to see my mother, M. Behlmer?" retorted Avril. Her eyes had not yet averted from the leaning, sobbing figure of the woman. "No need to be cross. I've already said what I've come to say. I'll just be on my way now."

"I thought I told you I don't want you here. That better be clear to you this time. What have you said to her?"

"Nothing. . . I just said goodbye."

Everybody said farewells, at one point or another. Over the years, there'd been several occasions where it had been necessary to have final words with someone or another. How many men she'd shamelessly courted, only to con; there were some bitter moments. But they'd all been painless, not for them, but her. Everybody said goodbye. But goodbye is not a smooth, complacent two-syllable word; it's a word of tears and pain.

Moving down the hall for the door, not a single pang came to her eyes. Enough tears had been wasted, almost as much as time.

"Do you need money?" Abruptly and coldly, he flung his last question at the door.

"I've never taken a farthing from you before, M. Behlmer. This visit is no different."

"You know why, don't you?" His heavy, thick brow frowned as deep as the lip, and every line in that face glared like a judge and a priest in two.

"Know what?" spat Avril.

"You know _why _I don't like you coming here," he whispered.

"My father was a poor man; there's no shame in that. What's the shame of children coming from-"

"That's one matter," he admitted. "But it's you. Having defamed the name Chasseur, it would be disgraceful, and impossible, to be called a guardian to a worldly child who's made a career of highway robbery. . . You're shocked? I've known for quite some time," he nodded.

"But-"

"No need to concern yourself, Miss Chasseur. For all our sakes', your reputation and this unfortunate connection between us shall remain our secret. At least, upon that, we can agree."

". . . I wasn't always," said Avril, swallowing.

"Well, it's too late for going back now. Let's not pursue the subject."

"That wasn't really my choice; it was hers. . . My sisters and I are just more shadows of the past. No more."

"Do I take it, as you mean goodbye," he added, "that you'll be going away for some time?"

"In other words, forever."

". . ."  
"Oh, don't look as if that's not desirable."

A new thought, as it was, had his lip curling back within. "You're not about to pull some grand scheme or other, are you? Of all the names I've known you to take, your patterns are predictable." In answer, she blushed indignantly. "Miss Chasseur. . ."

Out the door and halfway down the steps, ready to seek her flight in the street, she'd been frozen by the sound of her name called from his lips.

"Avril. . ."

"Yes?" _What, say it, you pious mongrel! No better than every dog and coward living out of every inn and tavern of the city! Say something! 'You little thief, you wench, vermin, devil!' I know you think them. . ._

"Take care of yourself," said he. The eyes rolled inside the head. Looking him in the eye, though it chilled the heart, it was replying that boiled her blood. "If you do need-"

"You'll do what?" Her voice suddenly calm, like a low growl, rather wolf-like. "It's not your opinion of me that insults, monsieur. It's that you pretend you care. . . Goodnight."

* * *

"Avril. . . Avril!"

She paused a moment, responding, but hesitating. Recognition. But something already seemed amiss. Her long coat had been pulled tight and taunt about her figure. Of all places, he'd not expected to find her in this neighborhood. It was a surprise; within a second, it became mystery. She refused to look back at him. In fact, his approach only urged her to hurry on.

"Avril-"

"What is it, Bertrand?" she mumbled.

"You know you're looking to me rather mad, right about now," he noted. "Walking here, practically in the middle of the roadway. Anybody could see you here. . . Oh, you must've seen your mother."

"Took you that long to guess?" she sulked.

"I can tell. Your mother has a way of driving you into a foul mood," he smirked. "I'm off duty in four hours. Will you wait at home until then?"

"I can't, Bertrand," yawned Avril, craning her neck to one side until a crack. "I've got to be up at crack of dawn. And the housekeeper's been giving me odd looks because I'm up too early and never seen coming from my own room."

". . . What's going on?"

"Nothing wrong."

"You don't usually go see your mother when the weather's fine in your world. What's the matter, my little silhouette? Do girls go to their mother for advice? Don't mean to brag, but I can be just as good at advising than an old sage."

Finally, a little humor put her cheeks back into color. "I may not see her again," answered Avril. "Just thought I'd give her one last visit to remember us by."

"You didn't tell-"

"No, no, of course not. I've never told her."

"She's not worth your regret. None of them are," he sympathized, her contempt his own. "They all wronged you and your sisters. Just more of the mainstream of heartless mankind."

"Bertrand, really, the way you talk. . ." muttered Avril, embarrassed. "It's not as if it was a crime. And I'm not fifteen anymore. It's not like she abandoned three babies to the streets. In fact, I'm surprised she had not left sooner."

"Oh, don't talk all tough with me," he chuckled. "I know that hurt, all of you, but you especially. You have every reason to be upset."

"I am not!"

"Betrayed?"

"So, maybe she did, but I'm not upset. It's not that important anymore. Besides, we've remained on speaking terms over the years. She didn't do it out of spite, or that she hated us-"

"She just loved him more, and you less."

"Yes, thank you for reiterating. Now, may I be allowed to go on my way? I want some sleep before the sweet mistress wakes."

". . . Have you given any thought to where you intend to go after the raid?"

"To be honest, I haven't had the time. I've found where the vault is: it's in the wall behind a family portrait in the Comte's study. No clue as to the key yet."

"Good progress. But I'm asking if you've made your plans?"

"No."

"How about the Americas?"

"It's crossed my mind. Would be a safest escape, being an ocean away from all the turmoil we'll cause-"

"I like America," he confessed. And with a little glee even: "Has a lot to offer people in search of a new life, and anyone willing to spend a little money with them. Once our circumstances are set, the land of liberty will welcome us with open arms. Go to every one of its best cities: Boston, Manhattan, Atlanta, New Orleans, Houston, San Francisco. Build a house, invest in an enterprise, raise a farm and breed horses, wink at all the fine lads of the neighborhood, and pick one to father a dozen little brats. Why not?"

"You call that a paradise?"

"I'm imagining what a woman likes."

"Well, if that's your ideal, by all means, Bertrand."

"It's not. I've never told you about my dream, as you never reveal yours."

"Humph! What's yours then?"

"It's all that with you."

"What?"

"All of it, that's my dream. . . and you there with me."

It felt like a hand had wrapped round her waist, tugging her closer to him. But nothing was there. Both his arms were at his sides, with the pale moon winking at the badges decorating his coat.

"You want me to go with you?" said Avril.

"Yes."

"With you. . . in what sense?"

"Just as we are and more," he said, grinning. "My business partner, the passenger seat next to mine, my housekeeper, wife, gardener, fellow horse trainer-"

"Wait, wait. . . What? You said. . . your wife?"

"Yes."

"Y-yes?"

"Yes, my wife."

While sharing little in common with most women, no young woman could ever react with no less disbelief than she had hearing a declaration.

"You must be tired," he teased. "Yes, I said 'my wife.' I want you to marry me."

She appeared to look shocked, neither displeased or thrilled. All these years, having thought to know him, this ever steadfast, invulnerable companion she found she never knew. By his smile, he'd caught her baffled. Too numb for words, she'd become rooted to where she stood, in the middle of the street, and forcing herself to understand.

Never before, having known her, had he ever felt so sorry for her. He. . . not Bertrand. Neither of them realized their own silhouettes were stalked by a third shadow.

**Surprised? I didn't think so. Again, I apologize for this chapter. I'll get over my block-ache come the next update. And Avril won't be standing there dumb for long either. Don't want you to think that just because 'he' would follow her means that there's been a change of heart. . . Don't take any hints yet.**

**Well, do you hate or pity? Is she only good enough for Bertrand? What do you think of the glimpse of her life? I'll explain more later. Maybe that part with visiting her remarried mother was complicated, but if there was confusion, I'll explain it soon. Hope you'll come again. Review if you think you can improve the flow of things, please:)**


	12. Chapter Eleven

**Thank you Brambled13 for your input. I think that last would've been called a filler. Here's my improvement. Maybe another filler, but if felt better written. Also a note to another reviewer, Oliver Grey, I am surprised. I don't know if you're the only one, but I didn't think a guy (if you are) would be reading Phantom fan fiction. You also reviewed I Do Not Cry In Pain, I remember. Thanks to you too.**

~Chapter Eleven~

"Why?"

"Why would I do such a thing or why would I want to marry you?" he put to her plainly, triumphantly amused. "It's not any change of heart, if that's what you mean. My thoughts on the institution have not changed, and still think men are idiots to let themselves be snared in such a trap. But I know you, and you know me. We're rather different than the rest."

Her sigh smoked against the bitter cold of the four o'clock hour of morning. "That's funny. Here, I am thinking I don't know you at all, Bertrand."

"Well, it's clearly surprised you, but is it objectionable?"

". . . I don't know, really," she shook her head, uncertainly. "I haven't seen a happy union yet. I'm not sure, if you must have someone, why settle for me?"

"We make a good team, you and I. We understand each other."

"And you're not a brainless fool."

"Which should be in my favor."

"So I know you wouldn't propose this unless it was to your advantage."

". . . We've known each other awhile now, Avril," he acknowledged. And with uncommon tenderness: "It's difficult to bid farewell to a person who's quite grown on you. In fact, I've come to think that. . . you've in some way become a small part of me."

"Really?"

"Doubt you feel the same, and I can understand that. You've not been given the chance to be loved, or to love in return."

"You know enough," she agreed. "Well, Bertrand, I have to say you've surprised me. I didn't think you capable of this feeling for anyone. But I'm not sure if I'm ready to bind life and fortune-"

"I don't expect that," he replied, smiling still, brushing thumb over a colorless cheek. Such a gesture that actually revived its redness. "We have a few more days yet. Doesn't matter where we go after, but before the raid, I want to know-"

"Bertrand. . . I am not sure. But I'm not scared of anything." By the leer in his lip, skeptical, she added: "I don't know if we'd be happy, but I am not afraid of chances."

"That's all it'll ever be, Avril. We all live on a matter of chance. I think we can at least get along."

To that, she laughed. "Well, what you offer isn't all that different than what we have now, but if I say yes. . ."

"What? If you do. . . you only want to say it as long as you can take it back?"

"If I say yes, it's not. . . Well. . ."

"It's not that you love me?"

"No," she shrugged. Amazingly enough, it didn't disappoint him. "I think we are a team, we get along, and I do like you."

"Give it a couple days," he advised. "Get used to the idea."

"I like you enough to take my chances on you. Fair enough?"

"From you, that's generous," he teased. Before another word could be exchanged, the two shadows merged, or rather, his shadow pulled hers closer to his. Both faces, both lips, pressed and intertwined. It seemed natural enough. And she waited until he pulled away. There'd been a flutter; her heartbeat certainly jumped to high speeds. A rush of love. It's the sudden throb of a headache that strikes instantly and dies away the next moment. The height of a fever, then suddenly cools. Maybe it was happiness.

"Alright, I think we've said enough," he declared, withdrawing a step. "Go on back to your post. Be a good girl for the fine lady."

"I will do as I please."

It wasn't long before the two were both out of sight of each other. Avril glanced behind several times to watch him disappear from sight. All the while, unable to recall to herself if she'd actually said yes. He accepted that answer, whatever it was she gave him; it had been so quick and fleeting, whatever the exact words that passed between them had been forgotten.

What have I done? Have I said yes? Will he joke about it later on, perhaps laugh it off, call it all a tease at some time? No, he was dead serious! He said marry, he said wife, and a life together. Nothing was vague about it. That's. . . very sweet of him, I suppose. To his object of charity for so many years, that was generous. He'd not like it to hear me call it that, but. . .

When the street lights were no longer passing from her field of vision, she began to realize she'd stopped in her tracks. Thoughts consumed too much to keep her walking on down the road. 'I've come to think that. . . you've in some way become a small part of me.' 'We understand each other.' '. . . not been given the chance to be loved, or to love in return.' Something was wrong, and that was it. _He didn't say he loves me_, she thought wistfully. _Should he have said that? Most couples do, I imagine. But he knows what I'm like, why should that be disappointing - But it's not! _It almost kindled within her the urge to run back, chase him down, and demand why he didn't say it. Or did he not feel that at all?

He likes me, but am I. . . Am I. . . ?

"Congratulations."

Her eyes fell shut, equally humiliated and she was outraged. No one dared walk so close, with the audacity to overhear, pretending to be her own shadow.

"I have just about had it with you!" cried she, vehemently. "Go away, please. Just leave me alone, Erik!"

"His rather bold display, I take, has not met with your approbation," he smirked, appearing from out of the darker part of the sidewalk. And apparently alone. "That's about as much as one would expect of a turncoat."

"What do you mean?" huffed Avril. Every facet of the face furrowed and frowning.

"It's not meant for you to understand."

"Well, I want to understand. What do you mean?"

"He makes his living, just as you do, by deceiving. How would you know if all that was real or not?" he scoffed. "By all appearances, you were quite flattered enough to believe it."

"I don't want to talk about him. . . Have you got another note for me to pass to Christine?"

No reply or move of his head indicated yes or no. "May Erik ask something about earlier?" By the tone of voice, he was curious. "Why does a child, abandoned by her mother, and left to fend for herself, still pay respects and profess to love her?"

"What are you talking about? I never said anything of the kind."

"Why did you go to see her?"

"Well, after the ball and our final caper, I'll be leaving Paris, possibly for good. Who knows if I'll ever see her again," she shrugged. "And. . ."

"Yes?"

"And. . . I'd like to think that. . . I don't know. . ." Furious and hot, angry for having betrayed her own resolve, she couldn't take it back now. He wouldn't allow it. "I'd like to think I'm the one, in the end, that's deserting _her_. And there, just as I was leaving, _he _comes out and tells me to take care of myself. . . Tonight, I got to say everything I wanted to say to the both of them. I've been planning it for years. And I did it perfectly. . ." she sighed. "Now, I just feel empty. I made her a sobbing heap, and I just threw every insult he made to me right back in one breath. . . After all that, and I'm ashamed of myself."

"That'll pass," he said hardly.

"Doesn't it make you wonder, since you heard all that back there, why Bertrand would care about a woman like me?"

"Why would you suppose he does?"

"How should I know. . ."

"So you like him," he shrugged in return. "That's about as much a man could ask from you."

". . . Sure," nodded Avril. "He's probably the only man on this earth who'd accept me in spite of everything."

Thankfully, Erik didn't try to contradict. Instead, they continued on in such silence that it was practically solitude. They did not lie for once. Intent on getting home and growing delirious from the exhaustion of their walk, she did not perceive him and his rather sly glances from the left corner of his eyes. All in attempt to catch any indication from her face. Cold and indifferent. All the grimacing lines about the countenance had smoothed to a blank nothingness. A statue's face. But never before had he seen her eyes, blink so fast. . . Perhaps it was exposure to the moisture in the air that chilled them, but it looked like something else. . .

"Why don't we make up some time?" Erik suggested.

Following his gaze, they'd come to a livery station towards the innermost of the neighborhood. A frostbitten, half-slumbering driver sat in dismal boredom, waiting to snap the reins of an equally gloomy pair of animals. Nobody else had boarded, making the conditions perfect. Avril hopped up in first, requiring no hand for assistance. Erik stepped in, whispering their desired destination. So quick he did, and then ducked in, making certain the man wouldn't see his masked face.

The wheels had not been rattling over the pavement five minutes, before Avril began to succumb to the hours of neglected sleep. And the drinks of earlier had not served any aid. Two fists began to form round her temples, pounding from the inside. In such darkness, she couldn't induce her eyelids to stay up. The thoughts of that coiled rope of his sustained her consciousness.

"Might as well," he spoke up, but only in a whisper. Avril started.

"As well what?"

"We won't be out of town and at the crossroads for another half hour," answered Erik. "Might as well rest some. . . You cold?"

"I'm always cold," she yawned. In attempt to shake it, her head shook a little, and just enough to worsen her mild dizziness. Both arms were drawn in close; the hands rubbing between shoulder and elbow. Although unintended, it all lend to a rather pathetic look. And those eyes, still quivering from drowsiness and self-condemned pangs, produced a lachrymose glaze. If she had been alone, he could've assumed she would cry.

"W-wha. . ." Sucking in a sudden breath, she'd nearly jumped at garment brushing round her ankles, over her shoulder, causing her hair to sway and even cling to the fabric. He'd always been a shadow. Feeling a layer of himself, the outermost clothing, rendered the man before her more human. The exterior, rough and dense, kept out the cold; its interior, lined in velvet from the shoulders to the lower back, built up and trapped whatever warmth there was in the body. However big, her shoulders slipped into place, and the whole cloak swallowed over her too slender figure. . . just as it did him.

"Are you well, Erik?" she pondered aloud. "You're just skin and bone."

"It never concerned you before. Why now?" he retorted spitefully. "Erik's condition is adequate for existence."

"Was just saying. . ."

"You were just saying? Erik can find plenty of flaws in you, and he does not bother you about them."

"Oh, do you?" chuckled Avril. "Like what?" Infuriating her further, he sighed tiredly, turning eyes out the window. "What? I am unfeminine in trousers? No? Am I abrupt, coarse? What do you mean? I know I have flaws. Are my eyes like slits? like a cat's?" she taunted. "Do I look viscous to you? . . . Uncivilized. . . Ugly?"

With each guess, she seemed to smile all the more. Though at the same time, rasping and shaking her voice grated inside her throat. And most graciously, he stopped her, right at that.

"You are not," he denied.

". . . Am I?"

"Maybe not soft on the eyes, but no, you are not ugly."

"I'd probably look better in a dress, and if I used a brush more often."

". . . Avril?" So gentle and softly he'd pronounced her name, like an exhale, a shiver ran the length of her spine. But a warm shiver.

"Yes, Erik?"

"You don't know what you're talking about."

All light of the city blurred alongside the coach, and all the more so with the fog. They came into the countryside, where all the streetlight vanished. Only the moonlight lingered, trespassing through the windows. And once again, the light played on his mask, the ivory-silver one. If she squinted, it almost looked like just the rest of his own skin. Instead of blazes, the gold amber shade of the irises were tempered more in the darkness.

_Is he hideous? Is that why he said that? _she mused somberly.

Unable to keep on one thought for very long, and drifting in and out, the mask had not intrigued her to the same extent it did everyone else, anyone else who'd come to see his face. From that moment on the street to their departure at the crossroad, something had changed. Something had changed to make him very gentle in his treatment. Instead of shaking her awake, a simple brush of a gloved hand over her arm bid to her. Ready to jump out, he removed her entirely from the carriage, without a foot even touching the folding step. Just as her shoulders began to shrug out of his cape, a crisp, new note was placed into her hand.

"See she gets it," he commanded.

"Don't I always," she remarked sarcastically. It was another business transaction. And off he set once again into the darkness, down a shady road, and quickly disappearing. The tail of his cape swirling about the ankles; it was the only discernable movement in the darkness. And she watched him until losing sight of him completely.

It came too late, but overwhelmed and relieved, she'd still been compelled to voice to the darkness: "Thank you."


	13. Chapter Twelve

**Forgive this short update. I usually write more, but more will come. Guaranteed! Still own nothing. Thank you, one and all, followers and reviewers, for the patience and support.**

~Chapter Twelve~

Not ten minutes into her breakfast, the housekeeper came to Avril's room, summoning her to the gardens where the mistress waited for her. Ominous enough, it seemed, to have the housekeeper send the message. It could be either two situations: either she'd done something to upset Christine, or else upset the Comte. One was worse than the other. With six days more until the ball, there was still plenty of time for a discovery or dismissal, or an arrest.

A façade of calm and duty rose to the occasion. Whatever misgiving about this summons was allayed as Avril observed her mistress sitting at one of the fountains. She was alone. No hat or parcel. The girl enjoyed the sun on her face, and it was a pleasant heat today. Her complexion completely washed in the gold rays; the cascade of blond curls radiating. Hemmed in by vast green hedge and roses in full bloom, she belonged to it all. From her back, Avril saw her at peace. But coming down the stone walk and seeing her face, there was evidence of a sleepless night. Deep thoughts churned.

"You wished to see me, Miss Daaé?"

Christine almost jumped, as if she'd not been expecting her at all. "Miss Perrin, I want to thank you," she began reluctantly. "Won't you sit down, please?"

Avril obeyed, taking a spot on the ledge of the fountain beside her. For the moment, equals.

"What do you mean? Thank me for what?" said Avril. For the look of innocence, she forced the smile.

"I want to thank you," began Christine, "for putting my mind at rest with this man you've been passing the notes for. . . For Erik. I'm sure you must know him."

"We've become more acquainted over time," she nodded.

"I have been terribly worried about him. Now seeing him again, I don't fear of him dying. Or. . . by any means."

"Does this mean, then, you still wish to keep seeing him?"

"I don't know how often I may see him."

"I've another note." No longer did she pass over the slip of paper, delivered with concealed disgust and perfect indifference. When Christine's fingers now tore open the wax seal, it had roused this provoking curiosity. She'd fought for the last several hours against breaking the seal and reading it herself. _What would he say? He's not like most men, not as I thought. Is it heartbreaking or condemning? Does he shame her for casting him off? He probably rants over the faults and weaknesses and failures in his rival. Does he speak of old love songs, the music they played together, the lessons?_

"Miss Perrin," Christine's throat cleared to speak. "You've not told Raoul anything, have you?"

"Oh dear," she gasped, "what do you plan?"

"Nothing, nothing. It's not that. It's just that lately he's been. . . a little too concerned for me. I've seen him follow me when I go out of the house, or even walking here in the garden, in the solarium, and always at my side when in town. . . I don't know if that's his protection or jealousy."

"Well, is he insistent on accompanying you so constantly?"

"As a matter of fact, he does," replied Christine.

"Does that concern you, unless you want to meet with. . . Erik in secrecy?"

"This is a terrible thing I'm doing, I know. It's practically infidelity."

". . . You're not married for seven days more. It's not too late, I suppose, if. . ."

"Oh, don't speak of it! Don't give me such thoughts."

"Well, don't blame me if you entertain them, Miss Daaé," Avril saucily replied.

"I did meet him last night. I haven't seen Raoul yet this morning. He didn't come to breakfast. I'm worried if his behavior is changing because he suspects this correspondence."

"He doesn't know. I'm sure. If he did, he would be treating me cold too. I probably wouldn't be here still."

"It is very generous of you, risking your job over this. I shouldn't be asking such things of you, Danièle." The sound of her alias made Avril wince, pained. "If you're exposed for this, one way or another, I will protect you. I won't let you be blamed for my doings."

"I am not worried, Miss Daaé."

"But your sisters," she remembered, "I won't have them deprived simply because you were obeying my orders."

"Don't think of it that way. I am only. . . It is my only wish that my mistress should be with the man will make her happy."

". . ."

"Now, will you be needing anything else, my lady?" asked Avril. Sitting in the direct path of the sun had warmed her too much, but also veering too near the affairs of the heart had its effect. Shuddering and hatefully had she pretended to care about this simple-hearted child.

"No, thank you."

". . . Will you be meeting him again tonight?"

"I had no indication he would, unless-"

"No, I was only asking. He hasn't said anything to me."

"He did say, if we were to meet, it would around the same hour, but in the solarium, over there. . . Would you, perhaps do me a favor, Danièle? I will slip out of my room tonight, and if he should be there, if you would go with me. Simply for support. And-"

"And to keep watch for any third parties?" guessed Avril. "Of course."

_What am I doing? Bertrand would be furious. Vérène would kill me if they knew about all this. All this side business with a pair of mismatched lovers is threatening the whole scheme. If they fly off too soon, there will be no ball. . . Unless, I can get a replacement for the poor fiancé in five days' time, there won't be any ball, no dinner guests, no loot, no more dreams._

It only worsened with the approach of the master. Before, when he'd come near her, Avril never failed to notice Christine's broad and affectionate smile. It usually followed with a peck on the cheek or some giddy laugh for no reason at all. She still smiled for him, as for show. As they both greeted each other, it felt all rather cordial.

"My mother has been waiting for you in the salón," said Raoul, smiling himself. "Something about the dinner courses."

"Oh dear."

"I'll come and join you in a few minutes."

He mumbled more, but Avril could hear nothing more than the meaning to that last sentence. And lingering behind, as Christine made her way back up the walk to the house, his gaze had settled on her. Neither hostile or friendly. With the eyes, in an attempt to engage, he waited. Avril bent a little in the knees and hurriedly dismissed herself, only to hear herself called back. A study of intensity glowing in the boy's blue eyes.

"You care very much for your mistress, don't you?" said Raoul.

"Of course, M. le Comte."

"I am glad," he nodded. "I hope she'll always be surrounded by ones with her best interests at heart. As I mentioned before, she's not led an easy life."

"I understand your concern-"

"Has she spoken of any details concerning her departure from the theater?"

"Oh. . ." _Be calm, breathe_, she reminded herself. "Not all that much."

"She probably wouldn't," he mumbled. The lip had pursed. "There was a man, a professed admirer, and also her singing coach, who had tried to court her as well. But he was a bit of a madman, not all sane, and he would've hurt her if I had not intervened."

"That's why you want me near her apartments. Of course, just for her own protection."

"It's not only at night I worry for her, but throughout the day. So I hope she is always with someone who has her best interests as close to their heart as I do. . ."

"Are you asking me. . . to be your spy, in other words?"

"Not a spy. But just give me an account of her daily activities." Of course, he looked and blushed for guilt, but it didn't stop him. "M. le Comte, do you suspect your fiancée would-"

"Not her, I do not trust him though." Another blush, yet another lie.

"Well. . . You need not fear for her. I'll let you know if there is any real threat to her wellbeing. Despite what you told me, she doesn't seem to be having nightmares."

"I am more concerned whether or not that you are concerned at all. . ."

". . . M. le Comte, do you imply-"

"No, no, Miss Perrin. I do not imply anything. . . yet."

"Very well." Quivering, warm with anger and cold with this new suspicion, her voice faltered a little. "If you've nothing else to say, I best be returning to my duties."

_He knows!_

* * *

"Who on earth would wish to see me?" Avril asked of the young maid. By late afternoon, a lady's maid would be due to meet her lady in the bedchambers, laying out the clothes and fixing hair, last minute preparations before dinner. Being led off was not only encumbrance, but something about the girl's frightened demeanor foreshadowed something more dreadful about to take place in the servant's hall. Somebody from the outside. . .

The man did not give his name. Probably for the very purpose of tormenting her own fancy, Avril was left to guess who he might be. There were plenty of police investigators, detectives out in search of the elusive Miss Chasseur, by one name. Bounty hunters, as well. Plenty of people were hungry for some savory vengeance upon the duchess, the diplomat's daughter, mistress of ceremonies, and many personages she mimicked. Neither Bertrand, Vérène, or Gaspar would dare approach the estate, risking complete exposure by the Comte. And Erik never moved about here and there during the day.

But his friend went anywhere.

And it was he, the swarthy, stern sage, looking fierce in the eyes and tempted to charge full ahead.

Waiting until the other maid left, she returned the expression equally. "So you've come," Avril cleared her voice. "Come to see me or the Comte?" she smirked.

"You don't seem surprised," he pouted. Disappointed at not having succeeded, intimidating her none, the older man sighed. His body leaning slightly against the back of a chair. "I came today with every intention, Miss Chasseur, of giving a full account of my dealings with you to the Comte de Chagny himself. I owe it to him and his fiancée, before I owe it to anyone else, to warn them of any impending threat to their safety and happiness."

"If that is the case, Daroga, why do you come to me?" puzzled Avril. "It's seems more like you would rather warn me before telling them."

". . ."

"Why?"

"I don't owe you anything, mademoiselle. . . Avril," he muttered begrudgingly. The shame to call each other by name. "But it would seem that despite your past and your plans for the future, my friend has forbidden, or I should say has strongly opposed, my interference in your affairs. He must see you as some kind of ally."

"I don't think this is really the place-"

"You serve some kind of purpose for him. I've seen and learned enough, between the both of you, that Miss Daaé is at the heart of things."

"You're not going to force me into resigning. If that's what you've come for, you've wasted your time," replied Avril. "And I'm growing rather irritated with you prodding-"

"You know what!" he snapped. Advancing, walking round the long table toward her, stopping within inches of her own face. "Believe it or not, my meddling is not really out of any spite toward you. It began that way. I wanted to see you punished for these crimes I know you'll never serve for, but with time, I've actually come to feel the same concern for you as I feel for Miss Daaé." Blinking and puzzled to silence, she hadn't expected any such sentiment from him, of all people. "You don't really know Erik, do you?"

"He's been more honest and straightforward than most men would who have skeletons in the closet."

The man paled at the phrase. "Perhaps. But he's not really told you the whole of his story, has he?"

"That hasn't been important," shrugged Avril. "I don't say he's either a bad or a good man, and it doesn't really matter. We're just doing each other a favor. That's what it is; you've asked me over and over, that's all this is, Daroga. He's not going to say a word to anyone about me, and I am his messenger between him and his sweetheart. That's all there is to it."

"If I told you some things about his past, your own incriminating history would pale in comparison. You might even reconsider this little peace agreement between the both of you."

"I am flattered, Daroga," chuckled Avril, batting eyes. "You care to look out for my own wellbeing? That is kind, but there is no need. We're of the same kind, he and I, and I think I know my own kind. Sure, he's dangerous. I've known plenty outlaws in my time."

He shook his head slowly. A sympathetic, sad smile spread his weathered features. "You think that, Avril."

"I'm not afraid of him."

". . . You ever hear rumors of a man called the Phantom of the Opera?"

**Oh boy! Now comes the fun part. . . Please review, are you guys still interested? Some big things will be going down with the next couple of updates. I'll give a little hint. For this whole story, I've done something different. Instead of making the whole plot revolve around the theater and Erik's lair, he's been outside his turf. Don't worry. . . Pretty soon, the whole story will shift back down the Communard Road . . . ;)**


	14. Chapter Thirteen

**Thank you for all your comments of my last update. I didn't think it would excite much being without Erik. And something funny, from a review by Ganondorf-Lover, I think you're the only one so far that has shown some interest in Avril and Bertrand as a couple. He sort of pops up here and there, but actually, he's a very big part of this story. You all will see more of him and Avril's fellow rascals.**

**To Brambled13, glad you like Raoul, as much as someone can like who is against him. Many would love to make him out to be a thorough villain, but as villainy goes, I think this is as far as he can go. I'm not a Raoul-basher, as a writer. But I'm glad you find him more amusing than menacing.**

**To Nakia-Park23, thanks for continuing to follow my stories. I remember your many reviews from La Tragédienne. I consider that project my favorite of all fanfiction I've written. It's not only my longest, but I enjoyed writing it the most. As you see, my continued interpretation of Leroux's story (which I call it that loosely) is pretty different from the others. My OC character is not so good or angelic or likeable as my other. But Avril has made a fun writing challenge.**

**Okay, I'm done. If you were a reviewer and I did not mention your name, don't be offended. I appreciate all your input from everybody. And to those who simply follow/favorite too, my sincerest gratitude! My reward, a surprise event. . .**

~Chapter Thirteen~

Nothing could've been simpler than what her mistress asked her to do that night, and yet, to stand there and be a mutual party to this third act in the life of a woman with two lovers, how was it simple at all? Most women, sly enough to think they might pull this off, would've been written off for her bad motives. Christine admitted it herself this all to be underhanded. In this instance, however, it was a matter of a girl, too young and naïve of the ways of the world, trying to make her first real decision. Who will she love more?

_Oh, you can say you don't love him in the same way as you do your fiancé_, thought Avril. _But that may just be true. Maybe it's your attempt to deceive yourself. You love the ugly one more than the handsome one. . ._

Ever since the morning, and with a good deal of time to herself, images of life and death came to her mind. A falling chandelier, a threatening voice coming from Box 5, falling backdrops, disappearing actors, and a long, twisting staircase down to the darkness of the catacombs. And from there, untold horrors: an eerie, deep lake, the infestations of rats, a dungeon-like dwelling at the opposite end, and a torture chamber of mirrors that blaze like deserts. Nadir Khan had left nothing to her imagination.

_And she was there to see all that? And yet, she returns?_

The entrance to the solarium, at the top of stone and brick staircase, Avril was stationed as guard. But at least, from her view, she had a vantage of the entire exterior room. Plants and bushes grew like outdoors, which provided her plenty of cover. For the majority, every flower ran in the colors of white, red, and pink. Here and there, some growth of a random, rebellious purple or yellow petals took root. Two fountains, one closer to the balcony and the other closer to the wall, glowed beautifully under the moon rays. At this time of night, they'd been turned off, silencing all flow and splash of the waters. Christine wandered near the one nearest the balcony. From there, he would be able to enter the doors closest from outside. A less risky mode of entry for the criminal.

_Is he all that his friend said? If that's the case, should I be going and waking the Comte at this moment? Is she safe with him?_

The feelings were maternal. They pricked her with guilt, but all these people couldn't mean enough to rouse Avril to any action. Christine was a sweet, charming girl in her innocence and situation. But being, as she was, the reason for the engagement and the ball, playing chaperone was not Avril's sole purpose for serving her. Of course, there was plenty to be owed to the Comte Raoul de Chagny. He wanted her protected and kept safe until the day of the wedding. Unfortunately, he was another young man, blessed with too much wealth and privilege to move his servant with any sympathy. After all was over, she wouldn't care what became of them. Whether Christine followed her heart or not, what difference did it make to her?

They didn't matter.

And then, always punctually, he came. Christine's back was to the balcony doors, so she did not observe his silent entry. _Perhaps it's her own stupidity_, mused Avril. _Does she think he'll change for the better if she chooses him? _The suspense and mystery of her mind might've been as much as his own. She had seen that face, yet continues to feel for him as well. When it came to the detail of the disfigurement, the Persian went into no detail whatsoever. Avril's eyes fixed with his mask. Tonight, it was the menacing black. Unlike before, his mood had blackened and effected a more somber expression.

"What do you wear tonight?" he asked amused. "It was not necessary for Christine to visit her Erik in formal dress."

"I didn't mean to meet you the first time in my nightclothes," answered Christine. The memory bringing a violent blush to the cheek.

"Of course, my angel. But Erik does not expect you to trouble yourself about it. You know it does not matter to him."

Indeed, no woman who could care less would've put as much thought into her clothes as she had just done. It was one of those tea gowns made by the family's dressmaker. Pretty and fashionable, but not particularly overstated for her, and a striking scarlet that contrast her pale skin tone. Scarlet! Of all colors, such a devilish, sinful color! Despite the higher neckline and long sleeves, it dared and defied.

"Well, I wouldn't have you, or anyone, think-"

"Why anyone else?" he stopped her. "Is anyone watching?"

"Of course not, no. My maid is just outside the door, though, but only to keep watch for us. That's all."

It didn't strike him favorably, but if there was anybody to keep watch, the thought of her on the watch eased him. "We have nothing to hide, my dear. Erik would not shame you."

"No, of course not," mumbled Christine, head drooping.

"Christine. . ."

"Yes, Erik?"

". . . You've been crying. What is it? Please, you may trust Erik. You need not be afraid, please," he crooned, approaching her slowly. "Why do you cry?"

"I don't mean to," she denied, shaking her head. Although she had cried earlier, manifest from her red-rimmed eyes, she refused to be reduced to tears before him. "I have stopped being afraid of you, Erik. But how can I keep going on this way? I. . . I know I have no right. . . having left you, broken your heart-"

"Christine, you do not need ask Erik for forgiveness."

"But I must! If I'd done things right from the first, you'd not have done all that you did. You wouldn't have had to put Raoul and your friend in harm's way, just to get me to make up my mind. And I'm not so selfish as to ask if you would see me again and again, just before my wedding, knowing how you feel."

". . ."

"It hurts you, doesn't it?" she sighed.

". . . Yes. Yes, it hurts me, Christine. It's not you that hurts, or hurts intentionally. You cannot help whom you love. . ."

"What if I'm making a mistake?"

The man's eyes suddenly widened and snapped with full attention. "You. . . what?"

"Erik, I thought that I missed you, because of the music lessons, hearing your voice, and talking about those dreams and my father and everything. But, it's not that so much as. . . So much as that I have missed _you_."

"Don't say it," he muttered. Suddenly quiet and shaking, his voice thickened with fear. "Don't say you love me. . ."

She said nothing, only looking surprised. But without having any answer, he presumed her own thoughts.

"The truth is pain enough, Christine. Don't lie to me!" cried he. "Don't tell me you love me and be that. . ." Coherent words were lost on him. Turning away from her, trembling at the shoulders, his face in his hand, tears were loosed.

"I'm not lying," she insisted, growing desperate. "Please, believe me! I wouldn't say it; I don't dare say it. How can I? You think I'm so cruel-"

"Yes!" he answered bitterly. "Do you know what Erik went through to let you and your young man go? To give you his blessing? And now, to be made to hope again - Don't do it to me, Christine!"

If only she could say something, to make him lower his voice, Avril glanced toward the door. At their volume, it would be impossible to detect approaching footsteps.

"I would not do that to you, Erik." When Avril turned back to look at them, Christine had a hand on each of his arms. Beggarly and pathetic looking, almost as worse as he looked, she attempted to soothe him. Maybe she was too shy to embrace him, but the gesture was enough for him. He allowed himself to follow her backward motion, as she pulled him closer to the edge of the fountain. Both seated on the ledge.

"I'm so sorry," whimpered Christine. All too quickly were her tears being revived. "I'm not saying these things to torment you, Erik. What I have said is something that has weighed on my mind for weeks, ever since I left the house on the lake. I care about Raoul. I have loved him for so long, but we're not children anymore. We've both changed since that summer at the house by the sea. . . For a time, I adored the thought of him about me constantly, escorting me, guarding me, and being the playmates as we had been all those years ago. Well, I got what I wanted. . . After what happened at the Opera, he's exceeded himself, but it's becoming too much. I don't feel like I'm being protected anymore. I'm being watched."

"Who? Does he?" he demanded. Just as quickly he fell apart, with scary speed, anger came rising, just as one candle's flame builds to a full fire. Avril could feel the blaze; the eyes had that way of propelling its emotion outwards.

"We were talking earlier. And he said something about my being alone, that I should always be accompanied by him or his family. He's even tried to get my new lady's maid to sleep in my own chambers, just to ensure. . . Well, he said it would be to prevent me from having nightmares, but I've never once had any, none. I think he wants to ensure himself that I stay in my bedchamber all night. . . I don't know if he's worried that you would carry me off, so much as I would take off-"

"That's absurd!" growled Erik. "Insolent boy! He should mind his own business!"

"It's not his fault," she defended. "After all, I am doing exactly what he fears."

"But Christine, he has no right to make you his prisoner."

"Every husband has a right to demand loyalty-"

"But he is not."

"At least, not yet?" she nodded.

"Would you willingly, knowingly live with his constant suspicion your whole life?"

"Erik. . . Did you not do just the same?"

_Oh, good Lord! Stupid child! _winced Avril. _The wrong thing to say!_

He stood up instantly, towering over her, and bellowing. "Never!" he argued. "Never! I let you, with Erik's ring, with a promise from you to return. And you were allowed to come and go of your own free will. And you were allowed to meet with your precious boy any time you pleased. Or is your young man like your monstrous, jailer Erik? and he does not like being lied to and plotted against behind his back?"

This display had her trying to move out from under his gaze, but he'd reached for her too soon, and held her by both wrists. "Forgive me, Erik!" she panicked. "It was thoughtless. It was not meant as an insult-"

"Well, you may be certain it is!" he replied. "My dear angel, you bring out the monster in every man! Erik is what he is now, and that boy is what he's become because one look, one word from you drives us out of our minds!"

"Stop please! You're hurting me!"

"Ah, so now you remember why you left!" he laughed contemptibly. "You do remember, don't you? I am not all like your young man, am I? We could be the same in every way but one. You could bear anything but this face!"

"Stop it, please!" she sobbed. "I'll scream if I must. Please, don't hurt me!"

"You remember, Christine? If not, I'll remind you now!"

It took a moment. But when he turned away from Christine, and with a full view, Avril barely restrained an impulsive, mortal scream. Horror! Finally, his whole face in plain sight. To call it anything like the human complexion would be a terrible exaggeration. For as he said, his own friend, it did not belong among the pale of humanity. Like death. Having torn the mask away, off came the wig too. There was still hair, but it grew thinly, not enough to hide the skin of the skull beneath. From the forehead to the upper lip, the skin stretched tightly over the bone, and patches of it here and there knotted, or formed into a crevice. No man could be alive and look closer to a skeleton. Having no nose to complete only enhanced the death-like appearance.

"Don't be shy now, Christine!" he taunted. "Don't have the audacity to turn away as you did before, after you yourself tore Erik's mask off! Well, are you satisfied? Go on and scream. Go running back to your young man and be grateful you made no such mistake!"

Thankfully, a long silence ensued his fiery tirade. All the while, a hand had been pressed to Avril's lips, reminding herself how to breathe and breathe composed. Ugly did not describe the sight of it. For once, she felt sorry and some understanding for the fear that beat within the poor young girl's heart. It would be a terrible thought: to be bound to this visage for every day and every hour to the end of days. Then, the temper had subsided. The man breathed calmly once again. It was too late now, though, to undo the consequence in Christine's face. Slumped over, and leaning against the fountain, she wept without control. Two ribbons of tears streamed, cheeks flushed, and a hand against her mouth muffled sobs.

"No! Forgive me! Oh Christine," he moaned. "Forgive your wretched Erik! It was his fault! You did not deserve that. . ." The both of them together couldn't speak enough to form a sentence. Erik had crawled on his knees until he was before her; the face, still openly exposed. "You've every right to condemn him. He is a monster and the nightmare of your life. Please. . ."

"Please, no more," she moaned. "Do not despise yourself. I don't."

". . ."

"Erik. . . I wish I could know you, and understand you better than I do. If I did, I would not bring this out in you, all this anger and hurt that the world has done you. If only I could. . ."

"You would repent of it," he sighed deeply. Tears rolled from the cheek, to the edge of the sharp jawbone, and on the stone-tiled ground. "You know more than enough."

"May I, please, finish what I meant to say before?" she asked timidly. "I want to know you better, Erik. We didn't do anything right before. I didn't do you the same justice, give you any chance without my own childish fears. . . After tonight, it'll be five more days, until the wedding. If you can forgive me, if you still wish to, I want to see you again."

". . . What?"

"I want to be happy, but I want Raoul to be happy too. I won't lie to him either, just as I wouldn't lie to you. And I do want you to be happy."

"If. . . if you are sure, Christine."

"I am. I promise, for once, I'm saying exactly what I mean," she nodded, but bitter in its note. "I will be fair with you. Even if I may be afraid, I will be fair this time."

For fear of discovery, neither of them tried to prolong this scene further. It had gone as far enough with Erik revealing his face once again. As gentle and loving she could conjure her actions, Christine rose and retrieved the discarded mask, restoring them to their owner. By now, he'd lost all semblance of true force and power. The mask did not conceal weakness, but back in place, he still managed to appear regal, even handsome. A stranger wouldn't know the difference. Grateful and renewed in spirit, he felt courage enough to lean closer to her, and she allowed it again. He kissed her forehead, and both wrists he'd clutched to and strained a little. As graceful and silent he entered, he departed. It left her shaken, but not with the dread of him.

At least, Christine would sleep tonight at peace.

She'd forgotten her watchman, too distracted for the moment, and left through the doors at the top of the stairs. Something was put right again. With the reconciliation, a little girl could hope for better. At her age, there was still plenty of energy to devote to hope. Although, it couldn't be said that Avril was considerably aged. Though young, hope was already dead and cold in its grave. The blood had boiled and chilled, back and forth again over the past several minutes. When the dust settled, however, the temperature had risen again. Hot feelings soared to what some would suppose was an empty chest cavity, where the heart would beat.

No, that was no innocent, naïve child.

* * *

"And he never saw you?" Melicent had been breathless and gaping through the whole of the narrative.

"Of course not," replied her sister, exhausted. "I'm not so stupid as that."

"Oh dear, that poor man!"

"I'll say!"

"It must be so difficult and embarrassing to go about life with a face like that. And to think no other woman would bear it except her."

"Oh, Meli, you didn't see her. The girl is a weakling. She doesn't love him; she just feels sorry for him. And she feels guilty for leaving him too. That's the only reason why she's still seeing him."

"I wouldn't judge her too harshly, Avril. She sounds like a good, sweet girl. I'm sure she meant what she said. She would not-"

"You know nothing, Melicent." The eyes rolled as Avril drank in another swallow of tea. She'd taken too long telling her story; now the liquid had grown tepid.

"So what shall you do now?" inquired her sister. "Will you tell the master?"

"Tell him? Do I look stupid?" retorted Avril. "I was apart of all this. I can't tell him without exposing myself at the same time. You would disapprove, I'm sure. But. . . well, I've felt sorry for the girl, and for him."

"I'm sure. You hope that they'll both discover each other's feelings and be happy. It's only natural." Hearing only a groan, Melicent found her opinion merely one-sided. "At least, I hope so. And well, if you think about it, it would be more fair all the way around. The Comte, though I'm sure is a gentleman, could be happy with any other girl; any other girl would be just as pleased to love him too. M. Erik doesn't enjoy the same advantage. There is no one."

"If his heart breaks again, though, it's his own fault."

"It's very kind of you to want to help them."

"Melicent, don't be mistaken," sighed Avril. "I'm not a matchmaker. This isn't about who's right for the girl."

"Well, why are you so upset?" she insisted, genuinely concerned.

"Because Erik is smarter than this. He knows what women are like, just like I know. She's stringing him along, and he doesn't seem to see it. Maybe she doesn't do it on purpose, but she can't make up her own mind. A real man doesn't like a woman like that."

"Not everyone is the same, dear," soothed Melicent. She could've been a lady with such perfect manners, talking in the perfect tone at the perfect volume. And she took the cold tea from her sister's hand without flinching. "Not taking into account her other fine qualities."

"I might as well be talking to our mother," under her breath, Avril muttered sulkily. "Hard to believe that two men could fight to the death over that child. . . with that scrawny, little figure and big eyes. All rosy in the cheeks, she looks like a china doll. . . But I suppose men like that."

"It's unfortunate," said Melicent. While the lip curled inwards, there was a curve at one corner of the mouth. "Most men do buy into appearances. But from all I've known of Erik, and having met him, I don't think he's at all like most men."

Avril only laughed. "Yes. If only he were like most men," she added.

"Will you be coming home tonight for dinner, Avril?"

"I don't believe I can," her sister shook her head, feigning a look of deprivation and self-pity. "I'm so sorry we haven't been able to have our usual meals together and leaving the house entirely to you."

"Oh, I don't mind. What are you talking about?" _Oh, don't smile! That only makes it worse when I'm the one trying to let you down the easy way_, thought Avril. "I'm only concerned for Estelle. Bertrand said it wouldn't take very long to secure her bail."

"Well, that was. . . only two nights ago. I can't remember. My nights are all running together."

"But Avril," her brow furrowed, "it's not a complicated process, is it? It's not like Estelle did any serious crime. It shouldn't take long to have her released."

". . . Well, I did mention it to Bertrand. Said something like unless the shop owners were to prosecute, she wouldn't be getting out."

"So she could be home at any time then, I suppose."

Ashamed to speak it but clearly thinking it, her younger sister dropped her eyes to the ground. Bewildered of expression and looking off into a distance, all of them signs of hesitation. But it was nothing that could be hidden from all-knowing eyes. _That's true. Bertrand said she would've been out soon. He didn't say when. . . He just said how much to get for the bail. I've done that. Where is she? _The longer contemplated, Avril felt as if her chair were sinking, and the heart falling out of place and into the stomach. Something chilled her, the both of them: all at the thought of their family champion.

"It could be," Avril cleared her throat, "that Estelle may already be out."

"Really? You think so?"

"Why not? She could be trying to duck us, maybe staying with one of her friends. Who knows?"

"That doesn't seem like her."

"She can be inconsiderate, Melicent. But I'll speak to Bertrand again, maybe he'll have something to fill us in. I'll let you know."

"I wish she'd come home," she sighed. Instead of lingering, and letting any pain be seen, she preferred to head for the kitchen. But as Avril observed the door closing, her sister had a hand pressed against the back of her head. It used to be the headaches would come and throb in the temples. _And there's the doctor, the specialist coming up from the south. Supposedly the best in the country. He better be worth the money, _Avril remarked to herself. _I won't have her be sick while we're traveling out of France within the week. An invalid would draw attention at any border we'd go to; and what worse way could we all be caught and arrested. . . I wonder if Bertrand would mind? Of course, if he wants me to come and call me his wife, both my sisters would be coming too. Or does he suppose. . ._

"I've got to be going, Melicent!" Avril called from the foyer. "I'll be back to check on you tomorrow."

"Thank you, dear!" she sang back. Bursting back in through the door, haggard and exhausted she seemed enough already, she offered: "Please, tell me, Avril. If Estelle is-"

"No, no. I won't have you wasting your time. I'll bring her home, even if I have to drag the little cat in by her toes, I will. But don't bother yourself about it. You're not well."

". . . I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault," shrugged Avril.

"It's just a matter of sleep. A few good nights and some exercise, and I'll be just as I was before. And I won't be in your way."

"Don't be ridiculous. . . Good night. . ."

Without a mother for the job, it took a great effort to at least act the part. Traveling the continents and coming home again, to a simple, more domestic frame of life, didn't suit her particularly. Home was hot, quarrelsome, a windstorm. There was always civil war to be had when it came to the youngest. Poor Melicent, the middle sister, never a moment's peace for her. It was difficult to care for two such helpless souls, but even more strenuous was pretending to be unconcerned. Avril glanced upward, watching the light of the sunset dimming with each minute. While surrounded by a frenzy of workers on the way home, the din was mute.

_Something is wrong with her._

Swallowing hard and shaking her head, clearing the fog of the brain, it came time to pick up the pace. From the slash pocket of the coat, Avril carried a concert program. The typeface and titles and actors all emboldened in long, gild font with extravagant curve. That night, they were to be performing _Faust_.

**Reviewers get a free ticket in! And a seat in Box 5! What do you think of it now? Was it all a little premature, the unmasking? Unlike Christine, where first she heard his voice before seeing him, Avril has seen him before. . . Yeah, that's a hint. She's gonna hear him sing soon;)**


	15. Chapter Fourteen

**So sorry, been too busy to think of updating. And writing this chapter was a bit of a feat. Maybe it comes easier to some than others. I know what I want to write but how to put it in words. Blah!**

**If you've waited for me and faithfully returned, I'm grateful. Hope this will make up for the wait.**

~Chapter Fourteen~

As it was, getting through the front entrance would've been impossible without the attendants taking notice. Not a single farthing clinked in her pockets this evening, and if Avril had need for spending on anything, precious monies would not be thrown away on a few hours of listening to people sing. They were all laughable, all these crowds that came in droves and parading the day's fashions. But in her circumstances, any frivolous pleasures disgusted her. They'd all come and gone already. The street dull of life, for all was inside.

Reflecting on the façade of the building, and considering the life account given by the Persian, Erik's accommodations were not as extraordinary as they were lavish: the charm of a townhouse, the size of an old château, and furnished like the seat of a great lord. Angels and mythical creatures, carved into the stonework, framed the rooftop. Light shown in every window. How many times she'd passed this very establishment without a feeling of curiosity or care.

Retreating down a nearby alley, out of sight of any guard or attendant, she sought until she found: an open door. It appeared a couple members of the stage crew had stepped out for a spot of drink; too occupied and merry by spirits, Avril's found her entry presented more like a welcome than trespassing. Several people she could manage to slip by. Others could not take notice for their own distraction. Where else but backstage did people live like this? A hundred doors, men and women in every costume, and turning mechanisms at work with stage props; all the while, the orchestra's music echoed in the hallways.

From the left entrance, Avril observed, at an angle, the players on the scene. A young man in gray wig and aged makeup prepared for his final meal, the Devil yet to appear. So interesting and intriguing that Avril turned from her hiding place with a little shrug and a slight smirk about it all. The length of dingy hallway eventually bend and ended, and going up a different staircase, she now walked in the grand corridors, where all the theater's patrons scuffled during the course of an evening in search of seats. Nobody roamed now. The production now underway, and things in order, her presence would not be seen at all out of place.

No attention had been given to dress. Although she admitted to herself that a little care wouldn't do any harm, she lacked enough of it to want to look presentable. The same boots, with the leather thin and ragged, still bound her feet as far up as the knee. The same dusty, faded gray coat of all her modes of travel hung upon her shoulders. Even the large-brimmed hat belonged on a man's head. Perhaps the only effort put forth was with her hair, which usually hung in a tousled braid or bound in a single ribbon at the base of the head. Bringing every strand of hair into harmony drained about an hour of her spare time at home for practice. In the end, however, the results formed a flattering pair of braids, beginning round each side of her head from the ear, and down until the two braids formed one down. Whatever hair was left was allowed to fall under the braid, free to breathe and move at its pleasure.

'You look rather nice,' her sister had observed sweetly. 'You should do it more often. Does Bertrand like it that way?'

Blushing, Avril had not replied to that. For the aloof man would've been pleased to think she would improve herself for his sake. Overcoming the embarrassment though, she had come and searched down the different corridors. Eventually, a set of three doors came into view. The first pair of doors admitted guests into the back wings of the first upper levels of the auditorium. The second, Box 1, the third Box 3, and the fourth. . . Box 5.

Hoping to catch him by surprise, she peaked around the door, opening it stealthily. Yet, nobody inhabited it! A couple of chairs had been positioned near the balcony, but nothing occupied their seats. It was as much a welcoming invitation as it would've been to find Erik here. He might've objected. The possibility of a scene breaking out had persuaded her to be cautious. This wasn't any reasonable man, with the normal jealousy of a proud owner, or simply fastidious over his wants. He'd not been called the Phantom for his good humor.

Avril admitted herself and sat, and still very much aware of the crowds seated in the pit and balcony, her body slid back and pressed as far back into the high-back cushion as possible. After several minutes of perfect peace, the mind rested from thoughts of discovery and began to take in the opera. Neither a critic or an admirer, her opinion formed objectively. The music and its musicians lived up to their expectations. At the height of drama, the violins were quivering from the violence of the bow. The bassoons entered at all the right times, inciting the present suspense. Angelic and beings of purity, that entered upon the stage, were saluted with the harp's soft vocals. The music, if played by itself, could possess the soul. But when combined with the actors and their singing, it was like falling from heaven and back to earth.

Perhaps the chorus could've done better with more practice; a couple of people sung slightly off with their companions. The tenor couldn't reach his falsettos, due to what sounded like the fault of a sore throat. And the lady, standing in the part of Marguerite, was not young enough to be convincing as an ingénue. Nonetheless, the voice was magnificent. It was applauded loudly at the conclusion of the First Act. None of it though could Avril bring herself to enjoy. It was not enjoyable sitting alone, when she had expected to find him here. Even if he had acted in his brute way to get rid of her. . .

But he did come. Marguerite was not yet onstage. She'd nearly lost track of the storyline and sighed out loud for boredom.

"_My silhouette_."

His purring drawl across the syllables shivered her as she jumped, startled. A human figure materialized in the seat beside hers. And like her, he reclined all the way back into the chair to cut off anyone's eyes from view. But detection would be unlikely, as the two together sat in shadow.

"Good grief, you're a heart attack," pouted Avril. "What are you doing?"

"Erik might ask you the same," he replied. Another shiver almost racked her frame as that familiar gold blaze met her eyes. With a sudden fear that he would know, if he had seen her watching last night, Avril's lip curled back. "You must be desperate for company," he remarked sarcastically. "Someone told you where to find Erik, and you come unbidden into his very domain. Unnecessary and very dangerous on your part."

"Maybe you can't tell, but I assure you I'm terrified."

It was too late. For Avril had sat there too long to be shooed away by a host's disagreeable manners. Having perceived it himself, Erik didn't try. She looked ready to shrug and laugh it off, to rile and renounce his own ally. For a moment, their attention had been lost to the opera again. Marguerite entered. Cheeks flushed and sparkle danced from her head on down at the discovery of the contents of the box. A full-fledged ecstasy burst forth with the commencing of the _Jewel Song_.

"How does she compare?" The question even surprised her, from her own lips. "With Christine, I mean?"

"La Jacqueline: she's a good replacement," he answered coldly. Nothing could've been a worse insult to an actress as that. Having never heard her mistress raise her voice in song, Avril did not presume to defend the inferior.

"I wonder, if Christine does change her mind with her upcoming marriage, if she'll resume her career onstage."

"That choice lies with her."

"But you'd be just as happy to hear her voice anywhere, so long as it's near you?"

"You're not a friend of Erik's, so you be careful what you say, Avril."

"I am a friend," she rebutted, smiling. "I am your friend so long as Christine is not with you. And when she is at last by your side, then our connection will be useless. So you can protest and revile me at your pleasure."

"That's most likely your single best quality," he smirked. "You're useful. . . aren't you?"

From childhood until the present, insults made little inroad into the heart, as much as that. She nearly winced as Avril reluctantly agreed. ". . . Yes."

"So, what have you come for? You never seek out Erik unless you have something to get by him. That money for your sister is the last gift you get from him."

"Well, could I still ask something from you as long as I can repay it?" she offered. "I promise: I'll never ask, beg, or lie to get anything from you ever again."

"And what is it you ask this time?"

"I've been told many things about you. Confirm how much of it is true."

An audible groan was discerned, even in the roll of those slanted eyes. She caught something that sounded like: "Typical, confounded woman." Or so she thought. "You women, curious and infuriating, you're all the same."

"Well, I can be fair. I'll repay."

"You will?" If he'd had a brow under the mask to raise, it would've cocked back at her.

"And I don't mean to plague you. It's not like I want to hear the whole story straight from birth until now. For the most part, it's better not to know where people came from and how they came to be. Besides, our mutual friend, has revealed more than enough."

"Our mutual friend is not exactly a friend of Erik's either."

"And long-winded," retorted Avril.

Another minute passed before a decision had been reached. "You may make inquiries," he granted. "But limit them to three. Make the best of it."

"Fine. And you'll get the same."

"Agreed."

"Good." Turning to face him, the opera was now just noise. And if it weren't for the crowds, Avril could've nearly laughed for the discomfort and irritation showing in his face. Usually the first question that anyone asked revolved in part about the mask. Controlling this urge to make light of it, or mention it at all, she pretended it was all apart of his face, as if she'd never seen the hideous marks beneath it. "First of all, why did you just now call me _my silhouette_?"

Of all questions to ask, his eyes met her again in amusement. "Simply because that's what the man, who hopes to call you his own, calls you," he answered.

"I suppose you would've asked me why," guessed Avril.

"Dear or sweetheart is more common."

"Bertrand and I met when I was fifteen, a child. And after our father died and our mother left us, he would come around and make sure we were all safe and sound. Since there was no one else taller and stronger than me, he. . . he was a father. . . back then, in a way. Sometimes, when he'd be out on duty during the night like all the gendarmes, I would walk with him. He would tease me about it. And eventually, he started calling me that because I clung and followed him like his own silhouette."

"Best you not tell him those fond sentiments of yours," chuckled Erik. "Suitors don't like to be loved like fathers." _Taken from experience_, mused Avril. _That's what you had been to Christine before, an angel, a religious, or rather superstitious link to the deceased father._

"Oh, that's passed now. I think I stopped feeling that a long time ago," confessed Avril. "With time, he became more of a friend than a guardian. Now, I think he's gotten to used to the idea. . . To be honest, I don't know what I feel. He doesn't ask that I love him, so it's not like I need deceive him."

Shifting uncomfortably, Erik diverted, asking for another question.

"Alright," Avril resumed. "My next question: about Christine's ring. This plain gold ring she wears, she told me it came from you. She is engaged to another, yet still wears it. I wonder why she does and if the Comte knows and why he allows it."

"It had been a present from happier days, as a sign of my protection over her and our unbreakable bond," he answered, more sadly this time. "When I released her and her young man, I asked that she wear it as a promise of loyalty, until the day of my death. . . when she would return here to bury me. . ."

"Well. . ." Stammering of her own shock, she struggled to continue thinking at the same time. "But you are not dead. . . You're not unwell, are you?"

"No."

". . ."

"Maybe Erik should be thanked for your concern," he retorted bitterly. "No, it's no ailment of health. . . If Christine should return to me, her poor Erik, then, that ring will become a wedding band. . . If not, then she is free to pitch it to the ocean waves while at sea on her honeymoon tour."

_So little faith in yourself_, she remarked in thoughts. But to imagine him, though not ill but without will to live, waiting for his beloved to return but unable to rejoice now dead. . .

"No high hopes at all, then?"

"It's most likely," Erik nodded.

". . ."

"All out of questions, little silhouette?"

"N-no. I. . . Well, I had wanted to ask something else. Now _that _doesn't seem important anymore. . . Erik? When you went to see your friend that night, you were there to say goodbye, weren't you? You had been preparing for your death right up until then, weren't you?"

"What is the question?"

Her expression, every feature lost the laugh that had taunted him into playing this sordid game. Instead of entertainment, it was depressing. Instead of finding a companion, needing a good time, her own spirits sunk and expressed themselves, particularly tender. ". . . Am I the reason you're still alive, Erik?" she asked, humbly.

He did not say a word for nearly five minutes. Avril ventured no further, and had decided to let that subject pass. Then, he took his turn to surprise her. "If you had not gone to the Chagny house, knowing you might do harm, you would not have motivated Erik to keep on living. Maybe you're more useful than you think you are. . ."

A flush of color sparked in her pale cheek. _It would've been enough to say yes, or if you could admit it, and be a little grateful! I strike you a bargain and take my orders from you, and call me useful! Christine didn't do any of that!_

"Glad to know I'm good for something," she replied. Instantly regretting her compassion, acid tinged her tone.

". . . Now is Erik's turn with you. You ask three, you repay three," he reminded.

"Go on then," she sighed.

"Did Erik wound you just now, calling you useful?" he challenged.

"What?" Avril shrunk, recoiling at the suggestion. "Of course not. I am not offended at something that's true. And it's nothing I'm not aware of; I am useful to people. Give me a good wage, and I'm at your service."

"Would you. . . accept Erik's apologies?"

"Don't bother; apologies don't mean anything to me," sneered Avril. "Next question."

If she'd not been so vexing, the scarce lips would've loosed with a laugh. For no one could be as snappish as he himself could be. "When was the last time you cried?" he put to her, once again in a taunt.

"Seriously?" she scoffed. "When was the last time I cried? What a stupid question!"

"Apparently, you take joy in other people's misery, and other's good fortune has the opposite effect. There's very little true emotion in it." Still, ever stubborn and brave, she wouldn't submit. "A father dead and a deserter of a mother: that's the equivalent of an orphan. One sister ailing, the other incarcerated, where is your solace? It's not in that pitiful heap of a house; you have no home. You've more than a dozen other aliases, so many lives, and you find yourself running from each one with each new crime. If it weren't for that, or for that beloved guardian of yours, you'd be begging. That's your existence: a swinging pendulum between posh and poverty. . ."

"What are you doing, testing me?" Fixing her lower jaw and staring down into the musician's pit, she swallowed and counted and breathed while a fire ignite within her mouth. This heat went higher, as high as her eyes, into her nostrils, and back down the throat. The lungs filled and exhaled normally, despite this growing, watery chokehold. "I don't shed tears in vain for what's out of my control. Unlike you, I don't pine. I don't hope of someone, some better half of me out there in the world. No one could understand. . . Christine doesn't understand you. And you don't understand me-"

"Keep your voice down!" he hissed. "You keep going, I'll turn you out before you make this box the stage of another drama. . . It was a simple question, Avril. You take it like an insult. Didn't you just say you were not insulted with the truth?"

Sighing exhaustedly: "I'm not insulted," said she, shaking head. "I'm just angry. You're right and correct from what you guessed of my life. But I don't feel sorry for myself. . . I'm sorry if I insulted you. I don't mock you for being in love. . . To be honest, I wish I knew what it was like. . ."

This widened his gaze on her, more than a little surprised. "You? You, the pretty, little rogue has never been in love?"

"That's a surprise?" scoffed Avril.

"It's not so much that as that you would wish it."

"I envy, but I wouldn't trade it for the heartache. Love doesn't last."

"That is your opinion. . . Love never dies; we're just not the kind that inspire that in humanity."

"I suppose."

"Your feelings, though, do you credit," Erik acknowledged graciously. "Don't risk it if you cannot endure the pain after all is said and done. At least you'll not be deluded by any such sentiments when you marry your handsome guardian."

She scowled back. "You are correct, except he is not my _guardian_. He is a _friend_."

"Your watchman, maybe. Your teacher, your leader, your livelihood, your shield and ally. But not your friend. He's done no service to deserve your friendship."

"I am my own person, whatever you may say."

"Even Erik, monster than he is, never dreamed of warping the angelic image that Christine is into a version of himself-"

"He's not-"

"Why do you think he calls you that to begin with. . . 'my silhouette?' "

"You know, I never pried with you. Just for that, you've lost your privilege of the last question," she sneered. "As a matter of fact-"

"Where do you think you're going?" The very wind caused by the lightning motion of his gloved hand was felt across her skin. It wasn't merely the leather, but the entire hand exuded of the dark chill of an underworld, where no light could possibly reach.

"I'm not sitting here to be insulted," snapped Avril.

"You do not retract promises to Erik. Maybe you do that with everyone else, but not him," he growled. Tossing her hand back in return, he motioned and commanded her to back down to the opposite seat cushion. A sweat gathered at her hardened brow. There hadn't been fear before; though the dread of sudden death does not compare with the anticipation of being taken alive by confession.

Before going on, though, Erik forced her to endure the quiet and his hard glare, watching for some sign of relenting. A torture much enjoyed.

"Well?" she muttered.

"What's behind your passion for music?"

It had nearly been forgotten to her. "W-what?" she sputtered. "Oh, that's right. You saw me play. But I wouldn't call it a passion."

"An amateur you may be, but you have feelings for music," he discerned.

"That's like asking a gourmand why he likes to eat. For some people, one thing is a necessity. To others, it's a living. . . a pastime. . . Or maybe it's a satisfaction that comes from trying to measure your own intelligence beside a genius, ones like Strauss, Beethoven, Handel, Mozart. And more recently, Bizet."

"You're rather limited," he smirked.

"You mean ignorant?"

"That as well," Erik conceded. "Why not get a glimpse of another kind of music?" At this offer, he rose from his chair, and now, it was her turn to look perplexed. Without the shining star of his own dark world, it was another opera and another couple of hours of his own life wasted in the lofty, empty heaven of Box 5.

"Where. . . where you going?" her speech staggered. Would he leave through the door, into public exposure?

"What do you think Erik means? Come," he urged her.

"And leave without finishing-"

"You want to know real music, come follow Erik. . . unless you're afraid." The reaction was nothing short of predictable, and Avril would not be insulted. But she was continually amazed. Instead of the door, the Phantom himself revealed another unseen passage. The column itself opened, revealing itself hallow and dark on the inside!

With every reason to be afraid, Avril obeyed the summons. Christine's information about him had incited her. Through all their acquaintance, she'd known only the desperate man in love, the dangerous, and his weakness. In the dark and in his own domain, Erik was the master. And calling this place home, she quickly discovered his superhuman ability of seeing in the dark. Once the passage closed above their heads, and the narrow stairwell snaked downward, it had been easy to follow. Up until the end of the stairs, no guidance had been needed.

Instinctively, the arms stretched forward in search of a wall or some sort of barrier, attempting to establish herself in the blackness and gain any sense of direction. The orchestra's music had grown all too faint to penetrate the walls. There seemed nothing.

"Still brave?" he asked, amused.

"Yes," she answered stubbornly.

"Then why is your left hand lingering very near your neck?"

This shuddered her, and in shame, the hand dropped. "Dear Daroga told me it would be the only defense against the Punjab lasso," she admitted. "I'm impressed that you see that much down here. Now, what have you to show me?"

"If you will be a good girl, for once, Erik will be hospitable. _On the condition that his residence is never revealed to another soul_."

"Although, I must say, I am more impressed that Christine even had the courage to follow you down here. I'll give her that."

"How do you know that?"

She'd always used the darkness and shadows for advantage. But now, it was useless. Too much at a loss, she found herself in need of him. . . some sort of physical contact. It'd be too dangerous to follow by the sound of his own voice. Tumbling down a flight of stairs or colliding into a wall would only provoke laughter from him.

"I. . . Erik. . . I could use a hand," she sighed.

"Why?"

"Why?" And suddenly exasperated: "Call me a cat, but I can't see in the dark!"

"Why? You do not like my hands anywhere near you."

"That's usually because they have a tendency to reach for my throat and leave bruises and drag me here and there. I am adverse to that."

". . . I beg your pardon, then. But besides that, Erik does have rather cold hands."

"Oh. . ." Perhaps, detecting the tinged sadness of his voice, Christine had remarked this. Perhaps the poor, delicate creature shied from his hands. Not only cold, but the fingers and hands themselves felt spidery. And then to think, living so alone and isolated, the man did not know much human contact. It repulsed everyone else. "Well, if you'd prefer, you might lead me down arm in arm. . ."

He agreed to this, surprisingly. Feeling the curve of his left arm, her right hooked in. Turned out to be a rather good suggestion, and less uncomfortable than the two would've expected. Instead of being forced and goaded by a monster down into his lair, of her own accord she walked alongside, no different than a guest being presented by a host and welcomed to his own home. Many more stairs were encountered. Erik turned and guided her direction of motion, so that she would turn and step with him. With each step, noting the dip as they approached a set of stairs and his stride as they tread on flat ground.

Conversation ceased as quickly as the music and sounds from the opera above. Although, the diva's occasional echoes floated down from above. She heard only her footsteps; his walked with stealthy, almost murderous silence. Every movement of the body had been trained to be undetected, earning as much her respect as her fear. This journey, at about fifteen minutes, eventually brought them nearer and nearer to a new sound. Water. . . Trickling water. And the walls about secreted, making the air itself damp. It grew thicker and thick enough until Avril felt herself engulfed by a wall of mist. It gathered all around her face in a sheen, even tasting it on her lips. Like walking through a forest, her nostrils absorbed an essence like dust - an earthy dust from wet soil. And mingled with it, the scent of algae and moss flooded the senses. The lake that appeared less manmade and more natural. The vile, polluted Seine had not tainted this water source. How rare had she ever encountered such large bodies so pure.

So pure and untainted, it even seemed to glow. Just as Christine described, Avril awed at the blue light cast over its surface. It did not give off as much light as to contrast the darkness, but it was perceptible. More or less a thing of beauty. And all this, a most extraordinary feature of his home. A man called this home! Yet, it wasn't any wonder to her that those above envisioned him and thought of him more as a specter. While Christine had shuddered at crossing this sea, Avril shrugged at a mere puddle. Nothing extraordinary about it. With assistance, she felt her weight shift while stepping down to the boat.

The man might've snatched it from the canals of Venice, fashioned very much the same. The seat proved comfortable, and gliding across the water, the row was smooth. Erik thrust the oar through the water as if the paddle knew no resistance. Didn't make any difference with his strength of motion. The narrow tunnel way opened wide until Avril could no longer distinguish the walls, stretching off into the darkness. She glanced over the side, but unable to estimate its depth. It wasn't a lengthy crossing, but Avril lost all sense of time by then, only waiting for the end of it anxiously.

And soon enough, they came to it: the house on the lake. It seemed rather forlorn at first. But once Erik lend her a hand up and opened the door, Avril winced at the blinding light. The intensity and quantity of candlelight illuminated across the stone walls as bright as the sun in a window. Christine had also spoken of a vast array of flowers, like the bouquets and blooms sold in the boulevard. A little gaudy and too colorful. They had been flowers once. The very sight of them now caused a surge of sympathy. Withered, brown petals clung to their dehydrated stems. Some still clung, while others lost their will and dropped their petals. Those left barren were as stiff and dry as a stick: the skeletons of lilies, irises, among others. Seeing around these vases and the candelabras, the dark shape of a piano came into view. While everything else had been abandoned to neglect, Erik maintained the instrument and its cherry veneer. Not a single scratch. Music scores littered the whole closed top.

"Well, any thoughts?" he questioned her. Her expression did not convey horror of the long period walking in the dark, or to have be standing in this unusual, old-fashioned dwelling five stories below the Opera. But it wasn't awe either that had her eyes wide open and wandering about.

"After that morbid, unlit walk down, this is almost disappointing."

"Disappointing?"

"Almost. . . But I'd just imagined this all much differently," explained Avril. "How did this house come into existence? What architect would conceive this idea of a house underground?"

"An architect who values his privacy. Someone who wishes not to be disturbed and forced to endure society. As you must've noticed, there were no bells or walkways. There is no way here other than the boat that crosses the lake."

"You mean to say all this is your design?"

"Erik welcomes few visitors."

"So I must be an exceptional person? Not that I flatter myself, but it must be rare to actually be allowed to come down to see the notorious Phantom, and not be dead."

"It's not merely that. If you were a simple 'anybody else,' you'd not have been received here with any welcome. Erik has invited you here because of music, something in common between ourselves."

"You certainly have been hard at work." Approaching the piano, a light hand skimmed over random pages, glancing across titles. Some were deemed worthy of it. "Is this an entire life's work?"

"This is one month's."

"One month? Really!"

"My life's work would fill the cellars, the last storey below us. And all that paper accumulated together weighs more than all the wine barrels in storage."

"Well, you mind if I have a go at one?" she asked. Before she could even wait for permission to be granted, Avril had already picked up one and seated herself before the keys. Resilient and gleaming, each and every one, as if no human had yet touched them. Though eager she was to try, the notes of music strummed to complex patterns. To even read them proved a difficulty, with the same careless scrawl that she'd seen in his notes to Christine.

"How on earth is anyone supposed to follow this?" she pondered aloud, after unsuccessfully driving a couple of bars. "You'd need a third hand."

"What does that matter? No one will ever hear it, or see it. Erik does not write music to be copied and mastered by others; it's for his own pleasure."

This resounding fact stilled her taxed fingers. "You mean to say. . . All these compositions, everything you've ever written - none of it has been published?" Avril replied astonished.

"What?"

". . ."

"What do you mean by that?" he insisted. His shadow towered behind her, throwing a shadow over the keys. "What do you imply, that poor, loathsome Erik wastes his time?"

"If it can't make you money, why all this time and fervor for it?"

"Erik makes his income in other ways," he spat.

"Oh, I know you do," she nodded. "Now _that_, I call a waste of talent. I may be a novice, but if you have a gift, whatever it is, use it."

He muttered something under his breath that failed Avril's ears. Although it wasn't a fight he could win easily, the musician simply lost the interest to pursue it. Almost any argument with her had its futility. In the end, Avril justified her every action and word and opinion, right or wrong. The moment she would admit herself to be in the wrong would be historic. While having come to this stalemate, she plunged the depths of his mind through several more scores. This time, Erik merely listened, allowing her to jump from one to the other offering no critique. Her mistakes were usually obvious enough, it wasn't necessary to point them out. Detecting error, her features creased into a grimace: downward set brows, a pursing lip, and a mild blush. . . Probably her embarrassment at seeing a fault in her performance.

For having taught herself, and making due with what little sources were had, the proud musician declared her tolerable. . . _Reasonably intelligent, maybe talented, and with an ear for the sounds of music. . . _Of course, the day he should say that would be the same day he would call her an angel. _What would he see in her? Cunning, wit? Yes, they can be entertaining, or else irritating. What else? A short temper? Her sarcasm? That pretty smirk? Her mind so equal and like his own? More than likely, it's the smirk. . . and every feature in that fair face. . . Fair? Or maybe the way fire ignites in the eye with anger?_

"If there has been any waste," he broke the silence, "it is you that's been wasting yourself." Erik expected a rather stung, bitter remark, and more derision.

Her voice sounded limp. "Sometimes, I feel that way," confessed Avril. "But I can't regret a trade that's kept me alive and my sisters in good comfort. Though it would've been nice to have had options, if I could've lived another life."

"Erik understands."

Recalling last night's meeting with Christine, unmasked and heart exposed, she believed him for once. His sympathy, for once, worth more than mere words.

"Well. . . Actually, there has been something I've wanted," Avril cleared her throat. "And I don't wish to waste an opportunity. As we're down here now, and. . . with the piano. . ."

"Yes?"

"Christine told me that you sing."

"That is truth," he replied dryly.

"Would you sing?"

"For you?"

"Yes." A hard lump of air caught in her throat, half-way through a swallow. By his tone, it seemed in vain she'd asked. Dropping her hands from the keys, Avril craned her neck up to his eyes. It wasn't an angry fire, not so much as apprehensive about it. "Why not? Thought you'd enjoy an audience again."

"Erik does not sing for simply anybody's pleasure."

"Of course," she nodded. "You only sing for your love."

"Precisely."

"It's a shame Christine could not treasure that, not enough. . ."

For some odd reason, incomprehensible to her, that lump in the throat suddenly turned watery. It swelled so much it began to hurt. Heat rushed into the face. Clenched tight, her jaw was the last barrier between her heart and the air. . . and his ears. In other lives by other names, when Avril herself had courted and charmed other men, the women watching at a distance wore the same expression. How vividly she remembered them, laughed at them. They thought they were losing the hearts of their men, clueless that their men's more beloved wealth was being plundered instead.

That woman was the daughter of diplomats and politicians, noblewomen, and the wealthy foreigner. None of them had the heart that now beat wild in the bosom of Avril Chasseur. _What does she know? What does Christine know, or understand about a man like you? How could she love someone from another world, a world like ours. . . ?_

"If you do so desire it," he decided at length, "Erik is feeling generous enough to grant your wish. But not on the piano. It could not contain the power."

That had been the last he said before bidding her to follow again. Across the room, he'd opened another door and waved her a foreboding welcome inside. Lifting the darkness of this room, the walls seemed much closer together, smaller. Musical scores, like fallen leaves from an autumn tree, lay scattered about the stone ground. Some sheets had been lined against the wall; all entitled _Dies Irae_. All four walls, right up to the door!

_Does each one count for one individual? _she pondered. The full weight of those rumors and the dangerous encounters retold about this place came to her. _What am I even doing here? And I do hope that coffin is empty._

A heavy black brocade veil hung round the oblong outline of nothing other than a coffin. Whatever its use could be, a blind eye was quickly turned from it and toward another prominent object of the room. Erik lit each candle until two ornate candelabras shed their light. Each flame grew taller and taller, until another instrument was revealed in all its glory. Bright enough to see, but dim enough to give off its essence, there stood the organ.

In the face of such obvious evidence of madness, it proved more fascinating than horrifying. And Erik, gliding around it and settling down, posed as regal as a king upon his throne. The pipes were opened, and keys were struck. The first couple of chords echoed discordantly, almost deafening. But Avril withstood it a moment. Without making any protest, the musician's hands lifted and allowed the silence to heal her ears. Must've been the strangest warming up on an instrument that any musician ever heard, to her perspective.

Then the real sounds came. The melody started with a few simple keys, until the other hand joined in. Something soothing, but it grew in volume steadily and more sure; just the same way the ocean would approach the sands, gently but always bubbling and crashing in a dull roar. And as the waters withdrew, Avril felt herself step in farther, forgetting the door, the walls, and the slumbering dangers and doubts of sanity.

Body and mind as if no longer her own, both robbed and freed her. His voice!

All the deep, rich voices of men, all the finely-chiseled features, with all their smiles, enchanting eyes, shaped shoulders and every fine specimen of man in the world could not be compared. Avril's ears had been filled with the world's eighth wonder. This baritone and wide range, unearthly and splendid, far exceeded the human race, even if his face failed. As the throat swelled to these dark, lovelorn lyrics, the very façade of the man seemed to fade, and with a little fancy and imagination, she removed mask and the marred layer of skin beneath. Replacing them was a fully shaped nose, unblemished skin, eyebrows, making a full human countenance. The only recognizable piece of Erik remaining, those blazing, gold eyes. And never had they glowed and kindled so much as music filled his senses. Once, during middle of a cadenza, with his voice reverberating off the walls, he remembered Avril. Her presence, from across the room, had come right before the pipes of the instrument. Every intake of breath quivered her frame; with each breath he drew and exhaled, she did likewise. This, all a reaction at a mere taste of music.

**If anybody has an opinion, thrilled or not, please tell me. What did you think of it? Avril, in Box 5? How dare she! And Erik taking her down to the house on the lake, I've been waiting for this chapter a long time! And finally, now she knows the voice of the face, instead of the 'face of the voice.' Wonder if Leroux's novel would've turned out differently if he had reversed that order for Christine and Erik. Would you think so?**

**Review and I promise, or at least I'll try, to do something very exciting for the next chapter! Don't be afraid. . .**


	16. Chapter Fifteen

**Won't make a long introduction because this is one miserably short chapter. Thank you for your encouragement last chapter, to Brambled13. Don't take this update as any confirmation. It's all part of the mystery. Christine or Avril? I won't reveal anything until later, much later.**

~Chapter Fifteen~

"Mademoiselle is speechless?" retorted Erik. After all that had been heard, and for all the brief time he'd known her, nobody's so dumbfound expression had stirred more humor than hers. Took a minute for the powers of speech to be recovered, and drawing a little breath, squaring her shoulders, Avril was her normal self.

"It is. . . was. . . Well, you've a very. . . beautiful voice," she stammered. A violent blush consumed. "Incredible."

"Incredible? Quite the compliment coming from you."

"No, I mean it!" cried she earnestly. "Where on earth did you learn to sing like that?"

"No one taught Erik."

"You just woke up one day and sang like that?" Hard enough to believe, but she couldn't have brought herself to praise any former tutor. All admiration belonged to the singer, not teacher. "You - you're a criminal!" Avril shook her head. "You deny the world your music, this? And Christine. . . ?" Who could excuse her now? Avril's thoughts dwindled with her own voice, ashamed for having mentioned that fair object of love.

"You flatter," he scoffed, brushing it off. Although, he seemed his eyes had suddenly grown shy in the last couple minutes. "Erik cannot help his deficiencies. And forgive him his selfishness. No music like this will ever be heard in the world above for as long as the world shuns outcasts and monstrosities."

Fearing a lost temper and maybe for her own safety, Avril curbed a sudden urge to confess having already seen his face, and offering all the sympathy of understanding. "True," she nodded, sighing, "can't blame you for that. When one's own appearance causes so much speculation anyway, no one would even care about your music. . . Perhaps you're right. They don't deserve it."

Erik had been silenced for the longest moment, until Avril turned away, taking this as a sign of polite dismissal.

"You're the second person who's ever dared venture in this room," he said.

"Am I?"

"You are. . . not appalled?"

Would've been natural enough, very typically and woman-like to respond: 'I'm sure I don't know what you mean.' Denying it would take too much an effort. Yes, calling this quaint chamber, called a bedroom, furnished with a coffin and requiems - not to mention the door to the nightmare cross the other side of the living room, was disturbing. Daily and constantly, reminded of his own mortality, does not make for a sane, healthy person. It was impossible to lie.

"It's well. . . Take off the lid, it's pretty much the size and shape of a good bed," Avril shrugged, but failed to smile. "And having lived a little a life on the streets, this would be a step up from a dirty pile of hay or. . . an attic. . . or just stone ground."

"You're frightened, aren't you?" he sniggered.

"I would. . . to be honest, maybe prefer a lighter color wood for the armoire, and some paint on the walls, but I think the brocade veil is quite lovely."

Poor man, how he laughed, as if nothing had been so funny in years. Its force racked the shoulders, robbed him of breath, and even caused his stomach to ache afterward. At first, Avril had been too shocked, but it turned contagious. Soon enough, she joined in his amusement heartily. For once, she'd intended to be polite, not funny. While he roared, her expression was more of a giggle, mortified. Happily, she took leave of that room, and hoped she would never have to pass that threshold again. No music from the organ would tempt her again.

"All in all, I'd say you're perfectly situated," she said, breaking the awkwardness that settled with the fading of their laughter. "You demand your peace and solitude, and this is perfect for it. It's everything a misanthrope could ask for even!"

"You like it?" he puzzled.

"Like it? I would adore it above anything!" cried Avril. "I will have to run and leave Paris for good, but if I didn't have to, I think I'd make you an offer."

"Offer of what?"

"For your real estate. It would give me everything I could want. It's isolated, all passages secured by locks and traps. I'll not have to worry about gendarmes or bounty hunters. And the lake, I love that! It's a barrier, as well as scenery. It's like an island."

"You wouldn't be able to swim in the water, you know," replied Erik. "It's not sewage, but it's not crystal pure."

"Well, I'll hire someone to get it cleaned."

He was already shaking his head, almost at the verge of losing his head again. "Before you begin to take possession of Erik's house and have him evicted, Avril, I'm afraid Erik is not accepting in any offers."

"Didn't think you would entertain a second thought," chuckled Avril. From her own fill of the last couple minutes, pains emitted in her stomach as well. Familiarity. All the fears of coming down and being led down by the Phantom himself, everything Christine had told no longer seemed founded. . . if not entirely untrue. Not to say that anything had been invented. Avril found the whole setting and the detail of the house just as described; it had not failed expectations. Insane, outlandish, arrogant, peculiar? Yes, Erik too had been perfectly portrayed. Only after hearing the music, the Voice -the voice that had become a personage on its own- she did not even know half of the man.

With one fore gleam, there was born fresh respect. This thing had grown from curiosity to intrigue. _Perhaps he cannot be understood_, thought Avril.

"Also," she cleared her throat, "I like the idea of no landlord. No rent, property tax, nothing. No one to answer to, you know."

"You call this a paradise?" Looking back, darkness had come over those eyes, which had always glowed and burned. "You don't know. . . You could not know, Avril. It's a hard life you've led, but you endure it. The sun still shines in your world."

"Oh, that's deep." Sarcasm couldn't be staved off forever. "What? you mean literally or figuratively?" His refusing to answer only worsened the confusion. He didn't seem to wish to make himself any more clear. She advanced a little closer, closing the distance of the room until a mere few feet in front of him. Quite the child, she looked before him. In her frame of mind, she felt as simple and frustrated as a girl being told a riddle. But he heard her thoughts of protest.

"Whatever you might think, Avril, Erik understands. . . I do understand you. When we agreed to this partnership, turning a blind eye to each other's crimes, it's been the easiest way to meet on good terms with each other. And truly, Erik doesn't care what you have done, in other countries and times. And as regards your intentions for the future, with this raid on the de Chagny household, Erik does not raise any objection."

"But?"

"Let me be honest. . ." _Not Erik, he said, me. Me. _Avril almost shuddered, feeling a harder and faster heartbeat. "I live down here and in this way, not because of the bad done to me, but also the bad I've done to society. _You are selfish, but you're not cold-blooded. You've a hard heart, but you have one_. . . This is not a home. This is the cell of a man condemned to hide for his past actions, as well as from shame. _This is not the life you desire. And I don't wish it upon anyone else_."

". . . But isn't that all it is, the past?" her voice faltered.

"It's not past if it lives in your mind."

"How long have you lived like this?"

". . . Many years."

"I am sorry for you," she confessed. The head shook despairingly.

"Don't do anything that will bring you to this, where it is necessary to separate from all humanity, just to keep yourself alive. None of your previous crimes are so terrible as that."

If she were Christine, the fact might've reduced her to the floor fainting. And this was no longer the Voice that spoke to her, nor the voice within that whispered and judged her like the conscience. He did not accuse or condemn. More amazingly though, he did not extol and admire her bad qualities, as did _someone else_.

"If I take what you say as concern, Erik," she swallowed, "then I am very. . ."

"Humbled?"

"Perhaps, but I was thinking grateful," said Avril, rolling her eyes. "And kind. But I'm afraid it's rather late to reform. All those years of theft and deceit, I no longer feel guilt. I am sorry I don't feel it like other people should, but none of that can be changed."

Suddenly, the walls and the ceiling grew too close, stifling. And the air, instantly stale and warm, brought an end to the discussion. Erik, much wearied by their own reflections, insist that they depart for the evening and return to their 'relative places.' Five more days. The countdown was still upon them. Each of them with their duties to perform, and things to be done, things to be resolved.

_Bertrand will not be happy when I've told him about the vault key, and how I must get it. There's only two ways: one, I steal into the man's chambers during the night, or else, take him hostage. _The vaults and the jewels were high priority, though far from her thoughts these last couple of nights. Christine had commanded her company in the solarium that night; that wasn't left to her choice. But so many things had to be known and done, _before _the ball.

With all the stairs that her host ascended to the surface beside her, fear returned. The future, the key, the vault, the escape, and a marriage proposal. . . Gold could not weigh heavier on the mind than all these. Instead of going back up the way they came, to Box 5, Erik had turned and walked them both far into a southward direction. High overhead, a large gate and its irons threw a bleak shadow. Moon rays slipped between these shadows with vaporous fingers.

"Shall I be taking any notes for you tonight?" offered Avril.

"No need," he answered. "Erik will be off to see Christine later this evening."

"That poor fool," she sighed. "He still has no clue, does he?"

"Be grateful, not sorry for that."

"I am a little sorry for him. He doesn't know he's far outmatched. His own rival is sneaking in and out of his own house, courting his own bride-to-be." Despite the shadow, there was a shape about his lower lip very like a smile. "Are you more hopeful now, about Christine?"

"Erik has been given a chance. But the choice lies with her now. Better her choice than her submission," he affirmed. "Kidnapping and threats, Erik is done with that now."

"Has she. . . said that she loves you?"

"No."

"Not yet?"

"It remains to be seen."

"If a man goes to so much trouble to say he loves her, I would think she should make an effort to return it."

"Would you do that?" he taunted. "As we recall, your dear guardian is waiting for an answer."

"But he never said he loved me! So there!"

"_He never said it_," he reminded her. "But Avril, you wouldn't feel yourself obligated to him if you felt nothing."

"How would you know what I feel and will do?" she said, desperately, throwing the challenge back, laughing. "Would you care?"

"Erik only pities him. Poor devil, the man that would love you."

"I have expectations," she declared. "But for most people, I think 'I love you' is rather standard expression between man and woman. Maybe you should learn to use it. No metaphors and great speeches. Just try speaking like the ordinary man you'd wish to be: 'I love you.' "

"That won't win her over."

"Just because it wouldn't win me over, doesn't mean she. . . Well, you know. . ." A breeze descended through the bars of the gate, but it wasn't cool. She could've wished it was a refreshing, chilling wind. "If words are not enough, kiss her."

Was it supposed to get a rise out of him? It was enough, however, to bring out the poisonous nettles. "What the devil goes on in that filthy, little mind of yours?" he snapped. She almost burst her seams at his angry reaction. "It's none of your business-"

"Do I take this as that you've never had the nerve or she has refused to be kissed?" she teased. "Alright, don't glower me to death. Have you ever thought about it?"

"At this point in time, it would be rather audacious of Erik and frighten the poor girl. She doesn't deserve that."

"Might be worth considering. She _is _considering _renouncing _her engagement, Erik. She thinks of you. She knows you love her. Why not try her feelings, put all her compassion and goodwill to the test. Find out if it is love she feels after all."

Without the light, thankfully, she did not see the color rise in his neck and to his face. "Would a simple kiss win over a coquette like you?" he said, eyes narrowed and searching in her eyes.

"From what I've heard said among others of my species, the ones who've been born with hearts, that the first kiss is usually the 'foolproof' way of telling whether he is _the one_. Now, I am not fully converted on that theory, so I will not make any false promises with another woman's heart."

"Good."

"But who can say? She may kiss you back."

"I believe we've said enough about this, and hope that this conversation will never be revived again," he warned. "Until we meet again, there is the gate. It'll lock as soon as you leave. And do not try to return or bring anyone back with you."

This wasn't to be had. While she moved for the first steps, Avril turned back. The smile still in shadow. And it wasn't all flushed and full, the smile ready to break in laughter. "I am sorry I've teased you. Maybe it was unfair," she shrugged innocently. "But you shouldn't be so afraid to tell her. . . And if you need courage, you could practice. . ."

He paused, half-turned, the ever dismal skeptic. "Practice?" he muttered, half amused and half disgusted with the suggestion. "Go about that, how?"

Erik could know and predict all things; he could've calculated every move of his life from boyhood. Men and women, alike, in their feelings and actions were predictable. Typical. Then, this one girl, of her own powers, defied all things he'd ever believed. And of all people, this devious, laughing coquette practically flew towards him, skipping on her toes. And of all things, her face flew towards his, and her lips. . . they snatched to his!

Less than a second, they fell. Her eyes, all glowing, danced with mischief. That smile that spread her lips only grew wider. "You could practice on me," she said.

Oh, if only there'd been light! To have had a glimpse, and forever captured the look on his face! Avril would've given anything to have had a look at his surprise, his speechlessness, and hear him stammer. But alas, she would not dare linger after that. Frightened out of her mind and soaring on winds of glee like a naughty child, she fled up the long, final flight of steps to the gate. He uttered not a word. If he'd been angry, it must've been that he refused to give her the satisfaction of having provoked him. He said nothing though, and nothing could not denote anger or surprise. . . or delight.

_Wonder what he must think? At least, if she never does kiss him, he won't go his whole life having never been kissed_, she mused.

Without caution and care, Avril set off into the streets, but she did not slip away. A small crowd ushered from the doors of the theater, as the production of _Faust _had been let out. All was over. Nobody saw from where she came.

"Avril?" called someone. A boy, or a young man. "Is that you? Wait! Where you going? Avril!" Of all people, from out of a large group of strangers, it was Gaspar.

**Well, corny? immature? out of character? Oh, yeah! I'm sure it is! I'm sorry. I had this scene in my mind and I laughed and had fun. Don't know if you call that fluff, and I don't mean to give you any leads because of Avril's bold move. And this doesn't mean that Christine doesn't have a shot either.**

**Avril doesn't seem jealous, she doesn't seem to mind Erik and Christine together, and she even offers advice. Maybe that's why Brambled13 would call this out of character. But I'd like to hear from any willing to review, please review. Do you hate or pity her?**

**Oh, and now, with this end, she's been caught by one of her own cohorts! And guess who's going to hear about this!**


	17. Chapter Sixteen

**To Samantha Michaelis: Love your impatience, love your excitement! Sometimes, I've felt this thing has dragged along. I'm glad and it's nice to have you prove me wrong. Unfortunately, I make you no promises with regards Erik.**

**To Brambled13 (unofficial beta): I bet this next chapter will drive you nuts. Yes, I mean Christine. By the time I get to the ball, she'll probably have everybody, as well as you, bent into a pretzel. Depending on the version, I write Erik, Christine, and Raoul different ways. Thank you for being so loyal and critical and encouraging.**

**To Squishy88: I understand where you're coming from, and it didn't seem until the very end that Christine felt real remorse. But she left anyway. Maybe if Leroux wrote a sequel, Erik may have changed her mind. Glad he didn't. A story that ends badly is fuel for fan fiction. (not that we own anything)**

**To Hugabouv: I laughed at your review! 'I think he should pick one of the readers, they're so much better looking and hang on every word!' You're funny. What's funny is, none of my readers know what she looks like! I've never written any physical details about Avril except that she's beautiful. She's brunette, blond, red-haired, and dark-haired. She has blue, green, brown, hazel, turquoise, and purple. She's neither tall or short. She's neither fat or skinny. She looks like me and you and every one of my readers. I leave her to your imaginations. Whatever she looks like to you. . .**

**All reviewers, thanks. All followers/favorites thanks. All readers thanks. Enjoy an extra long chapter for once. Get ready, something big is about to happen. Not good, I'm afraid.**

~Chapter Sixteen~

Slipping out of the house by the late hours, Christine acquired a talent for silence. The soles of her shoes made no sound, and the doors closed behind her scarcely clicked or rattled in their frame. Although the solarium had been convenient, changing meeting places ensured more safety. Instead of light clothing, a long and dark cloak shrouded her slight figure. As she had no such garment of her own, she'd resorted to a theft from the coat closet, one belonging to a much taller and broad-shouldered cousin of Raoul's staying with them.

As the garden could be seen from any east-facing window of the house, her destination went beyond, to the far flung corners of the estate. Here the trees rose into a thick grove, and the foliage spread a canopy thick enough to block out the moon. If she'd not been expecting him, being discovered by anyone here would've stirred panic. The wind was picking up in velocity. Every branch swayed, and loose leaves were scattered.

"Foolish child, why do you come so far? You'll catch a cold," Erik scolded her gently. As always, she jumped a little at announcing his presence.

"But I don't wish to pose any harm to you, if someone-"

"Erik does not worry about that, my dear. We could've met in the solarium as we did the night before. I'd have gladly met you there."

"I know you would have," she nodded. "But I am glad you've followed me here. There's something I'd like to tell you."

"You seem quite excited." Whatever the reason to have lit her eyes and the smile in her face to happiness, he almost anticipated something magnificent. "What is it, my angel?"

"Erik, I've asked Raoul and he's granted me permission. I asked that, instead of a formal event, that we and all our guests come dressed for a masqué. Wouldn't that be perfect?"

"Perfect, for what?" his brow furrowed, or at least the brow-line.

"Erik," Christine's throat cleared nervously, "if it's to be a masked ball, you would be able to attend."

Maybe he should've been pleased. When a woman moves heaven and earth for lowly man, it should be a great compliment. Every face behind a mask, and his would be just another in a sea of faces. How freely he could move, socialize if he pleased, and dance with her. Nobody would be any wiser. Saying yes held a strong temptation. Pain and pleasure blended strangely in his masked features, mind and heart at conflict. Conflict - two entities at war!

"I - Erik is very flattered by your suggestion, Christine. For no one has really thought of Erik and his comfort before. And to want to include him in your first social occasion."

"Oh, please, say yes, Erik!" she pleaded. "Whatever becomes of us, I do wish you to be there."

"That does not sound hopeful," he sighed. "Whatever becomes of us. . . What-"

"No, I have not made up my mind. I promise."

"When shall you decide? How will Erik know when you are certain? Or. . . will you ever be certain?"

"More than likely, I don't think I'll ever be," she admitted. "I am about to hurt someone, either way, whatever I choose. I never take pleasure in anyone's pain."

"Maybe it's that both Erik and your young man are just halves of the man you dream to love," he guessed. But far from angry, he state it as a simple fact.

"Oh, don't say that. I don't consider you a half-"

"Christine-"

"Or Raoul neither! You are a man of incredible gifts and ability, with many good qualities. But Raoul is very kind and sweet, with many virtues of his own. . . I don't blame you if I am driving you mad. I drive myself mad. How could you love a woman, or rather, child that I am?"  
"You do yourself no justice. Please, do not berate yourself!" With both hands, he grasped her by the shoulders. At least this time, he found she did not recoil. Fear had left her eyes. Someone or something had made them sore, raw red on the brims. She'd already cried, with nothing left inside. "Please, you are much better than that. You are young, Christine, but I do look at you as a woman, with many qualities yourself."

"Well, it's unfair," she shook her head. "I can't keep doing this to you both, two I care for so much. I can just imagine how I would feel in your position."

"What? What do you mean?"

"Well, I should feel a bit ill-used myself if the man I loved were torn between love for me and another woman."

"No!" Erik's hands withdrew as if his angel had suddenly turned to a flame of fire. The very thought spoken like blasphemy. Yet, he felt tremors and a trembling within, cold dread. Could she see through the way he saw through her? Could she see this _other woman _that suddenly took shape in his mind? Did she suspect? But what was there to suspect? "What a ridiculous idea! There is no one else, my angel. And this is not about Erik. Erik is not worth enough to anybody, more or less, the object of love for two women," he laughed dryly. "Christine, you really think some outrageous things sometimes!"

"But you must see that I'm right."

"If there were any such other woman, there'd be no choice," he vowed. "_Erik could only love and loves only you, Christine_."

Fortunate for him, wrapped in the complexity of her own thoughts and the selfishness she accused herself of, she did not realize that he defended himself. Inspired of guilty feelings, it all came out in haste to clear the air. For only a couple hours ago, he had been standing in the shadow and the moonbeams with this other woman. A cold and more savage woman, who smiled devilishly and tormented and played and plotted people around her like a chess player. Of all women, she happened to be the first to kiss him. If the man had been in his own mind and senses at the time, the insolent, little rogue would not have lived long.

But he could not say 'I love you' now without hearing her voice behind him.

"I shouldn't say so," replied Christine, blushing madly. "I do care and think highly of you, but it wouldn't be enough. . . Erik, I do love you."

Suddenly breathless, heady, he exhaled erratically: "Do you?"

_How long? Probably five or ten more seconds, and she'll take it back_, he assumed. He waited for more, but for nothing. Like any sweet girl of seventeen, her voice had been lost. All courage claimed by silence. Both seemed to be waiting for something more. They both stood rather close. . . and both looking straight into the other's eyes. And she did not move away. . .

_'If words are not enough. . .'_

Oh, it was too good to be true! Did she wait, did she truly expect it? If she'd merely wanted her forehead kissed, he knew that her head bent forward. It did not. Her neck craned back a little, just slightly. For years, unfamiliar to loving human contact, he was separated that moment by mere inches of air. Her eyes had begun to flutter closed.

"Let's not act in haste, child." Jolted and stepping back a few paces, he urgently gasped for breath. Courage had failed at the last second. The lost opportunity had him reeling, and by the look on her face, did she appear somewhat disappointed? "We did agree to wait for the ball, on that night, for your final answer."

"Of course. . . Well. . . I guess that is right then," Christine replied, the spirit a little sunken. "But I promise, I will be sure then. Maybe it was wrong to say it now, but-"

"There's no need to explain." Erik shook his head, still bewildered. "Perhaps it's hard to believe, after all that's been between us, but Erik can be a generous man. It is a shame that he cannot ask you trust his word."

"No more a shame that I cannot ask you to trust me. I do believe that, deep down. I'm sure you're a great many things, a man better than you always make yourself out to be. And you don't need to tell me that; I know you are a generous man. With the way you like to help people, perform little services for people at the Opera, and care about all our insignificant, personal trials, it is from the heart of a good man."

"No. . . Hardly," he disagreed. "That's the Angel of Mercy you speak of, not of Death."

"Oh, Erik-"

"You've been out here too long now. I'll see you back to the house."

_Idiot! Idiot! She would've agreed to anything! I could've kissed her, held her in my arms; I could've said 'come' and she'd have run with me now, at this moment! If I only had not promised. . . No! Erik is not bound by any promise. She's a thief and a liar! I know her nothing! If she wants to rob the darling, little Comte, that's her affair._ His grip on her hand clenched and contracted, raising a little alarm. Christine endured it, though, ever kind and patiently. Madness had been suppressed. That evening of the torture-chamber, and the scorpion and the grasshopper, had checked her fantasies. Within an instant, she regretted, and in the next, she regretted having pained him and hoped to repair the damage. In vain she wished things.

Approaching the gate and hedge back into the garden, Christine froze. "Somebody's awake," she gasped.

"Where?"

"In the house." She pointed to a high window, second storey. A candle slowly moved down the hallway, away from the staircase and towards the interior rooms. "It must be Raoul," she gulped. "Who else would be up at this hour?"

"Do not distress yourself, my dear," he purred. Leaning down, he nodded towards the direction this light was moving. "They're not heading for the stairs. They're. . ."

"But it must be Raoul," she said. "The light is coming from his room."

"Doesn't mean it has anything to do with you. Go back the same way you came; you won't be seen, so long as you move quiet and quick. Go now. Don't be afraid," he urged her on.

It wasn't so much his own concern for the boy as the holder of the candle.

* * *

Before even laying hand on the doorknob, a quick puff extinguished the candle in hand. Going in, with only the darkness for her weapon, the search of lock and key commenced. Usually required imagination, to stop and ask herself, where would a man think to hide very important keys. Would he hide them? The housekeeper carried them always, and kept her ring and chain in plain sight unwisely. A master of the house would be carrying them all, or a key that will open to every room. A more nervous man would keep this sort of possession on his person constantly.

Avril snuck up alongside the bed first, where the man lay sleeping. Poor man, though, experienced a rather fitful, restless slumber. It was full of moans and disappointed sounds from a parched throat and thick tongue. An empty glass on the nightstand still smelled of its recent contents, none other than brandy. In this unpredictable, shifting state, Avril contained her gasps and froze at any little motion of his hand or turn in his sleep.

The nightstand was checked first, searched thoroughly. All rather threadbare, save a couple of love letters, a book barely a quarter read, and a pistol of course- a firearm issued to all members of the Navy. It was recognized instantly. _Heaven forbid, when he finds out he's been robbed by his own housemaid, I'll have men on land and at sea hard at my heels. _Closing them softly, she gingerly and warily slithered a man below his own pillow. Wiggling fingers beneath brought her no result, no hidden objects. The pillow on the other end was the same. Each corner of the mattress, Avril pried under and groped in hope of a find. The sooner the key be found, the sooner she'd be out of the room. Two feet and one dream away from her own enemy.

So, he wasn't a nervous man of misgivings for his own jewels. If it wasn't near him, it must be concluded that the key would be laid somewhere safe and private. An antechamber, leading to a private study, made a logical hunting ground. But first, she perused a few drawers and the closet to be sure. Pockets, boxes, gloves: any little nook or cranny a key could be hid was desecrated. When this wandering hand crossed paths with a few francs or bank notes, they were no longer the property of the Comte. A letter was found inside one of Raoul's opera coats, authored by some Mme. Giry. This single thing was returned to its place, deemed useless.

Prepared to make her exit, a hand flew to her lips, silencing the gasp and a scream if there was one to come. If it had been Raoul, he'd have been standing before her, enjoying her scream at having caught her in the act. This hand came from behind, while the other shut the door on them. By now, this wasn't all that unexpected, simply annoying.

"How bold we are," he whispered, mockingly. "Are you so desperate?"

"Please, for heaven's sake, hush," she breathed. "If he wakes up, it's all over."

"Looking for the key?" guessed Erik. "It's not here."

"What? How would you know?"

"I have it."

"You wha-!" That icy, gloved hand closed round her lips again; an impulse to wrap her lips around it and bite down drew a thwarted groan out of her.

"Let's get out first," he advised.

If not for his stern interference, snapping a little sense into her, a beastly thing might've burst out her mouth and woke the house to a livid, rabid young woman who had met her match. He refused to let her speak until they'd come to another bedchamber, an unoccupied one at the far end of the wing, and closed the door.

"Just when exactly where you going to tell me about this?" demanded Avril. "You mean to tell me, all this time you knew I wanted that key, and you didn't think to inform me?"

"Since when was this little key apart of our bargain?" he smirked. "Erik agreed to let you conduct your business on the night of the ball without obstruction."

"This key goes to the vault, with all the Chagny collection inside. I need it! That's the whole of our fortune in there."

"That is your trouble, not mine. But for once, you've caught Erik in good mood, and he'll be generous. You want it, it's yours."

"I do want it," Avril smiled. "And what do you want for it?"

Infuriated by his whole façade, so calm and cool, it was fuel on her fire. She could not read any smile on his lips; if he had, he would've made a real request. He did not blink, only stared. The key was produced from a breast pocket of his waistcoat, displayed before her eyes, and gently delivered to her palm. Its rusty, copper sheen glittered, grazed by the moonlight coming from the window.

"Alright," her throat cleared. "So. . ."

"Avril, is everyone that you know a mercenary?"

"Everybody and anybody," she answered. "You sure you want nothing for it?"

"Erik can get what he wants for himself, without your help."

"Very well."

"Are you not the least curious how it came into Erik's possession?"

"I'd be lying if I said I wasn't, though that's not important."

"You know that this room was the bedchamber of the late Comte de Chagny?" Now, it was intriguing. "When his younger brother tried to rescue Christine down in the house on the lake, he followed him. Sadly, the late Comte stepped into a trap and fell into the lake. Some workers found him floating near dock."

"But you found him first, didn't you?" she mumbled.

"That's right."

"Oh. . ."

"Does it make any difference now?" he jeered. "I recall you once said you only rob of the living."

"Well, thank you telling me that," she replied sarcastically. "You could've simply told me you stole it from the poor man."

"Many accused the Phantom for the man's demise."

"Maybe not guilty, but of course, there's nothing wrong about searching a dead man for loose change."

"And that's all," he replied. "The men of the morgue do the same thing. Just didn't like you to presume that he was killed, as if, with intent."

"Oh. But. . ."

"It was an accident," he nodded darkly. "He only loved his younger brother."

"But why would you care what I think of you?"

A point was made; it startled him just as much as her. Yes, a strange choice of words. But it didn't change anyone's opinion of each other. As soon as Avril turned round, her focus was upon the room, finding the vault, the lock. The idea of grave-robbing thrust to the back of her mind.

"I suppose, then," she resumed, "if the key was originally his, then, the vault would be here. Or do you know where that is too?"

"The key has been of no use or value to Erik," he shrugged.

"And yet, you kept it," she said, with a head cocked confused. "Sometimes, I wonder who you are, and I'm starting to think you don't know either." Once again, she'd set about in a search of the bedchamber. Permanently vacated, all furniture had been covered: paintings, chairs, desk, everything. A maid had come in and made up the bed for the last time. Quilt and sheets, everything had stiffened and settled. The dust was already collecting; the smell of stale air and the old cologne he wore lingered mixed with the air. With each drawer opened and slipcover disturbed, Avril felt a hot blush. All the while, Erik watched; he said nothing, of course, but her stomach turned sickly within.

"If you had a family collection in your house, to keep safe from fires or robbers, where would you put it?"

"It's strange," noted Erik. "It would seem that the de Chagny family did not trust their jewelry to the keeping of a bank."

"Why should they trust anybody? Ever read a book called _Little Dorrit_?"

"A pianist, as well as a reader." Seeing her engaged in a vigorous contest with a drawer, with her gloved hand caught inside, it stirred a chuckle from him. "You're just the sort of character typical to a Charles Dickens. Don't panic- here."

Kneeling down and taking hold of the drawer in both hands, he wedged it enough to liberate her hand. Never before had it been so tempting. For such maturity, this girl was still a creature of impulse, a creature of habit, easily angered, easily frightened, and worse of all, refused to admit when she was wrong. While rubbing at her reddened wrist, Erik stood back on his feet.

"Try the closet again," he suggested.

Just like Raoul's, Philippe owned the usual things common of a man's wardrobe: a dozen suits, a dozen more waistcoats, winter coats, collared shirts, habits, hats, shoes, boots, a rack for gloves and cravats. This was more than a sense of fashion; the frequent visits and many friends to be had at the opera accentuated the need for elegance and accessory. In one of the Opera coats, Avril discovered a wealth of amusement in a heavily perfumed letter written by some woman with a foreign-looking name.

"Who was Sorelli?" she asked.

"The lead dancer in the Ballet Corps," answered Erik. Disgusted, he held the paper a little farther from his face. "Definitely. Anybody could smell her from three storeys below."

"It's a bit amorous. Ugh, this thing's giving me a headache." Having lost its novelty, the revolting item was returned to its place to be seen by no one's eyes again. "Wonder why his brother hasn't gone to the trouble of going through his things yet."

"He's trying not to think about death in the face of his wedding," said Erik.

"Doesn't seem to trouble his conscience- Hey, what's this?"

In the very far right-hand corner, a section of thick furs shielded a blank, drab-looking door. No knob, only a key.

"This is a false wall," Erik pointed out, rapping a couple knuckles against the back. "Well, you satisfied?"

"Very," she nodded. "The key fits perfectly. Beautiful!"

"Are you not going in?" he wondered.

"I promised Bertrand. . ." she paused awkwardly. It had been a few days, but even now, her dear friend did not evoke the tenderness. Loyal and obedient, wanting to please him, she felt an urgent need to refrain from going further. "I promised that I wouldn't explore the vault before him, or any of us, until the night of the ball. . . You know, so that way Vérène and Gaspar won't suspect me of anything-"

"Or so that _he _won't suspect you."

"He doesn't need to distrust me; he knows that," she sighed, shaking her head. "I'm not going to argue this again, Erik. It's clear you don't like Bertrand."

"True."

A pout formed along with her crossed arms. "And why should you?"

"If you don't know, how should Erik know, because he doesn't know himself, does he?" he retorted. "Now, give me that key. He was generous enough to let you have it; at least let him have a turn with it."

"You better not steal anything- or the necklace. Whatever you do, Erik," she demanded, clutching at an arm, "I beg you, whatever you do, don't take the necklace. He'd kill me!"

Didn't move him with any sympathy. To the very opposite effect, he slipped his arm out of her tight grip. "Save prayers for the One who will be merciful," he scoffed. "Just a look, that is all. . . Are you not the least curious?"

In the lack of windows, the candle had to be relit. Diamonds and all their related fellows deserve light, and every box, drawer, and cabinet had been assailed. The pair left little untouched. Of course, he professed more an interest for seeing, not touching. One cabinet on the top that had been unlocked opened on a vast collection of rings. Erik's attention seemed most fully absorbed with them. Of all sizes and all colors and varieties, she saw him gaze, studying their settings and appraising each one's worth. With each ten thousand francs counted, a deeper, more unsettling look grew beneath his mask, where pain dwelled.

Avril feigned her apathy, pondering and reveling in all the sights before her. A proposal made by any man of this fortune would not be taken as a joke. It could be seen as no wonder that this man had lost his sanity. And the longer Avril's eyes dwelled on the pearls and emeralds, hot surges throbbed, coursing through like the blood that coursed the body. All this beauty, about to be wasted! The young Comte didn't know her fickle heart. . . or perhaps he did, and refused to admit it. All the while, her sweet, endearing little mistress baited another man. . .

To watch Christine vanish, sneaking from her own chamber like a thief and out into the garden, Avril feared and hoped. The engagement had to last until the night of the ball, but what happens to the poor man after that? Raoul de Chagny could recover from a heartbreak; who's to say, a little heartache might even have done the proud nobleman some good. Erik would not recover a second time. If she had not been there, that night, no one else could've talked him away from that grave.

"I've found it!" cried Avril, as loud and softly possible. One cabinet on the island, center of the room, contained the crown jewel, the stones of her dreams. Until then, she had only imagined their splendor; no fancies came close to the original. Bertrand had described to her a pendant, a 400-carat sapphire. In its setting, the grandest stone purposely resembled a star, with four diamond points on each side. Decorating the two connecting chains, Avril counted at least thirteen smaller sapphires. These ones, unlike the pendant, had been cut plain, the exact shape of single shed tears.

"Is this one of the great jewels you've been hunting?" asked Erik.

"Yes," she sighed, caressing the thing, breath-taken with it. "Oh, it's beautiful!"

"How much is it worth altogether? The pendant itself has got to-"

"Bertrand said three hundred thousand," she replied, shaking her head. "That would be dirt cheap for this! Of all the rich families I've visited across Europe, this is the greatest collection I've ever seen. . . They call this one Angel's Tears."

"Due to the fact the pendant, in the form of a star, would come from a heavenly abode," said Erik. Sounded more as if he were speaking to himself, voicing his own wonder. "It is a thing of beauty," he agreed. "Will you pawn it?"

"Everything will be pawned, but Bertrand will dispose it with the most reputable jewelers. Still, it's no great comfort. This one is of such value and rarity, it's bound to raise attention, and it'll be risky trying to put it on the market."

"Why not keep it?" he suggested.

Avril shook her head, genuinely disheartened. "We never keep anything of our loot," she explained. "And what would I want with it?"

"At least it would be in the hands of someone who would cherish it, instead of entombing it. If it must fall to any unworthy hands," he added. It raised a bashful smile to her lips, something he couldn't help react to as well. It was like shame.

"That may be true," she shrugged. "But. . . Well, as long as I have it out, I might at least wear it once. No harm in that, is there?"

Erik shook his head. That innocuous, ungodly inspiration of hers had the senses tingling, and those wild eyes danced to it like music. Not at all like a mercenary. This wasn't a thief solely for profit, but for the love of it, for the beauty of the treasure itself. At seeing her difficulty connecting the chain in back, no scruple had he himself of assisting her, taking the chain, and connecting the clasp. The neck flinched at a little, involuntary gasp. As it didn't go taunt round her throat, Avril eased under his fingers.

"Did Erik startle you?" he remarked, grimacing. "He warned you his hands are cold."

She took no notice of what he said, or hesitated to anyway. Fascinated, her hands came up to the neck, fingering all the little sapphires, and wishing for a mirror nearby. The closest she could attain was an opinion.

"What do you think?" Avril faced him, even pulling the collar of her wrinkled shirt out somewhat. It wasn't a coy gesture, but in fact, almost childlike in her request. "It's a little heavy. I'm sure it'll suit Christine better."

"Christine?"

"Yes. She'll be wearing this the night of the ball," she explained. "She probably won't care for it that much. It is a little gaudy. . ."

"But you adore it anyway."

"Of course."

"It will look fine on her."

". . . Yes," she agreed, raising her voice a little cheerfully. Maybe too cheerful. "If I might say anything for the girl, she could make anything fashionable."

"Is this to be a full costume event?" he asked.

"That's the last that I heard. And it's apparently caused a stir in the house. The in-laws are outraged," shrugged Avril. "The Vicomte is neither here or there." Mid-sentence, completely involuntary, her eyes began to droop, and with her attempt to stand up, she tripped gently near the corner of the middle table.

"It's been a long night," he observed it, remorsefully.

"Yes. We've seen each other twice already, in one night."

"Why don't we close up now. It's nearly four o'clock."

"There never seems to be enough hours for the night." Packing up and locking all the fine collection, putting everything back in its place made the moment even more weary. Practically the whole night had been wasted, at least for sleep. Once all the doors had been closed and locked behind them, her gaze was drawn by the last remainders of the night still out the window. Instead of pitch black, the sky had become more purple, in limbo between night and dawn. The heads of the grove in front of the house were already perceivable shadows. This would be the time an intruder would fear for his opportunity of escape.

"I suppose you'll be going now," she thought out loud. "So when. . . when will I be seeing you again?"

"Probably not until the ball."

"But that's three more days."

"Why? Have we any other business to conduct?" he retorted.

"No. . . Nothing. But Erik, despite where we stand in this peculiar alliance, I hope you do not think me a mercenary. I am grateful for what you did. . . I mean, with the money. It was thoughtful. It's just that I hate having to beg it out of people. . . I. . . I am not as bad as most people would think."

Although it touched, words couldn't soften the flinty surface of that face. He circled round her, with peaked curiosity upon her suddenly meek and lost features.

"What's brought this on?"

"Don't know; just tired, I assume," she shrugged. "But in whatever mood I am, your company seems to bring me pleasure."

By the changed expression, it seemed to insult him. Flattered or pious, maybe even condescending, it had been a poor choice in words. A haughty soul unused to making humble speeches does it badly. As he muttered, rolled eyes, and thought without speaking, her jaw clenched beneath the heat of her cheeks. And she, one who always said the right things perfectly, hung head in shame. When he looked down from his lofty prospect, with those amber eyes flicking like a candle's flame, without a trace of censure, it worsened her humiliation.

"Or would you prefer being despised?" she teased ruefully.

"You needn't trouble yourself about any debts. It was a gamble; Erik knew that. It's just a shame that nothing came of it."

"Well, that's true."

"Your sister, she's not out of jail yet, is she?"

"Afraid not. But I daresay, a few days of confinement won't do her any harm. When the time comes though, I'd like knowing both my sisters are ready to go."

"To go with you?"

"Of course," she shrugged, then recoiled in a frown. "Is it surprising that I wouldn't abandon them, me? You think I'd go to all that trouble, asking your for money-"

"Begged?" he smirked.

"I asked, you could've refused me! But to risk my dignity on Estelle and throw away a fortune on some doctor, asking him to travel all the way to Paris to see Melicent? Does it seem like I would leave them behind?"

"Not at all. You've spent too great a deal of money," Erik concluded. "Well, you deny it? It's logical that you wouldn't. The fact they are flesh and blood has no bearing with you, does it?" He watched, with a flick of the eye, how her fingers curled inward and formed a tight, whitening fist. The violent urge to strike him hot in her face. For a moment, there was no noise but the sound of her own breathing. All the while, meeting his blaze of eyes, hardly even blinking.

But she'd already lost. Robbed of any word in defense, Avril spun around so vehemently it threw her hair around the shoulder. The candlestick, hurled from her hand, crashed into the wall and tumbled to the floor, all gooey, crumbled, and snuffed out. The holder made a clatter that could've woken the house, but it certainly wasn't as noisy as Avril grabbing the door and slamming it shut behind.

* * *

"Good Lord, not again! No, no! You can't be gone!"

Upon entering her mistress' bedchamber, Avril found the entire apartment in a state of disorder: pillows tossed, cushions skewed, every drawer opened and thoroughly disheveled. By the looks of it, this was the panic of a girl who'd lost her ring, _the _ring. Christine's hand rummaged beneath the skirts of the bed even, growing more frantic by the minute.

"Calm down, my lady," said Avril, the chuckle in her voice poorly disguised. "What's the matter? What's gone?"

"Oh, Miss Perrin, do help me please!" she begged. "I've lost my ring."

_Of course_, sighed Avril. "Where did you last see it? I'm sure it's here."

"I knew I had it on my finger last night. He would've noticed if I hadn't had it on last night-"

"He? I'm sure Raoul. . ." Then, memory, as always, revived and suddenly paled her face. "Wait, do you mean Raoul? Whose ring?"

"No," she answered, with a sad shaking of her head. "Erik's ring. The gold one I've been wearing. I told you how he made me promise to wear it-"

"Until his death? Well, I'm sure it's not lost," shrugged Avril. It was a begrudging pretense of her helping Christine to search, casually poking round a few drawers and glancing haphazardly behind the desk and mirror. "It's not as if he'll be angry-"

"No, you don't understand! Last time I lost this ring, terrible things happened at the Opera. He thought I betrayed him. If he thinks I've done it again, it'll kill him this time."

"Please, Miss Daaé. This will be of no good. Stop a moment." Taking hold of her by the shoulders, Avril managed to still her body in place a moment. While not particularly tall herself, Christine seemed much smaller and slighter. Naturally slender and complimented with an athletic frame, that was much exercised in dancing, Avril did not envy the figure. _What a child! _thoughts decried. _But it's certainly no wonder you're terrified of him; there's not a single hard bone in her body. _And so easily brought to tears, fear and heartache glistened her eyes; the struggle to retain them so vigorous.

"I'm sorry for you," said Avril, or rather forced herself to say. "If you like, I can be here all afternoon to help look for your ring. But this morning, there's the dressmaker. It'll be a great load off your mind if you go about business as usual. . . Besides, you shouldn't let your fiancé see you in a state like this. What would he say?"

"You're right. I know." Requiring a few breaths, the calm finally restored her to senses. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"Please, my lady. I am a servant. Why apologize to me? Let me help you clean up here."

"Oh please, don't do anything, Danièle!" gasped Christine. At once, the sight of her own lady's maid attending to the chairs and opened drawers, she leaped forward and forced a stop. "I don't want you to, not when it's my doing. I wrecked this room, I'll rearrange it all neat again."

"If that's the case, then what am I good for here, Miss Daaé?"

"I. . . Well, you. . ."

"Never mind. I suppose you'll do what you see fit."

"Don't be offended; I hope you're not, please. I'm not used to this sort of thing. But don't you hate it, having to clean and tidy up for someone else, and no one will do anything for you in return?"

"It's my job, Miss Daaé. I have nothing to resent when it is paid labor."

"But still. . . Don't you ever think you could be doing something better than waiting on me? I mean, this is the sort of work I'd be doing if I hadn't been at the Opera. And here you are calling me 'my lady,' laying out clothes, bringing tea, and all these little things that I could be doing myself. It's not like I'm helpless, that I need constant attention by people."

"You never struck me as that sort of person, Miss Daaé - or if you still prefer me calling you Christine. I've always known that. You were taught to do things yourself, which was right and proper in your world."

"Makes me feel guilty, but I won't say any more. You're probably sick of me airing all my misgivings, the same ones again and again."

_For once, you actually read my mind! _mused Avril. "I understand," smiled she.

"I am glad you'll be coming to the ball." Much the way Melicent would touch her, Avril felt Christine's hand brush and give a gentle squeeze to her wrist. "I hope you'll enjoy it. And it was a very clever idea of you, suggesting a masked ball."

"I'm only surprised that the Comte took to it so well."

"It was very generous of Raoul. He's been more than kind enough to me already. It was almost embarrassing to ask this of him, but it helped having you in the room. It made a difference. It's not just that he's granting his fiancée some request for her pleasure. I think all our guests would enjoy it, and some of the other servants."

"But it should be classy. It's not the same as a costume ball exactly. We're all just wearing masks. Don't see why that should make it any more exciting."

"Well, Erik. . . or certain people, I should say, might feel more welcome to attend knowing that."

"You say it loud and clear," Avril pointed out. "You want Erik there."

"I do."

"Are you more or less ashamed than you do?"

". . ."

"Or have you become 'devil-may-care' and thrown caution to the wind?" grinned Avril.

"Would be wicked of me, Danièle," she said, stepping behind the changing screen. "To say that I'm looking forward to breaking a man's heart, one or the other. . ."

_Are there no other blond-haired, blue-eyed girls in the world? Is there no other maiden fair who sings with the voice of an angel? Are there so few women in this world that a man has no other alternative but her? If I were a man, this kind of speech would be disenchanting. And if either man, the nobleman or the masked man, stood in my place, it would be enough to chill such burning love. . ._

"What colors shall you be wearing?" Avril changed the subject. For the safety of her own identity, for her own position, they could not be allowed to discuss Erik or the Comte at any length.

"Raoul and his sisters suggest I go in blue," said Christine. "Dark blue. They thought it'd suit me well, and something that would complement this certain necklace they're to have me wear. Something famous of the family collection."

"Yes, so I've been told."

"Now, there, that's salt in a wound. On top of secrecy and betrayal, I'm still going and letting them deck me in family ornaments more sacred than the marriage vow itself. If I were to discover me and Erik one evening, I shouldn't blame them for being so disgusted."

Finally, patience had been eroded, and the urge to speak with a mind without false identity grew too strong. No more boundaries. "Maybe we're different that way," Avril admitted, bitterly. "Some live to please. Some will have it their way or not at all, and not be dictated to by anyone."

At least, with something to keep her hands busy, it would keep all sharp outbursts and argument from occurring. Bertrand should not have been pleased to have his protégé, in any situation, turned out on account of her temper. It was not an easy or mild temper, after all; while it could be tried, it had a short fuse. When it was lost, the explosion could be a nasty one. If anyone but Erik had said such a thing of her, it would've been punishment, and possibly pain. Nobody had dared and overcome her and that reckonable force from within. It made it nearly impossible to say the right things.

In need of a dress with longer sleeves, Avril selected a pair of gowns, and a couple matching shawls for her mistress to choose. They each were laid out on the bed. When it came to the gloves, there were only two options: a black and a white pair. And it so happened, the black ones she'd snatched up, contained their own secret and symbolism. Out tumbled the ring!

Falling on carpeted ground, it hardly made a sound. More than likely, it came loose and became trapped in the fingers, and the whole thing slipped the mind. As far as value, it could be seen as precious. All gold is precious, but unlike other rings, Erik did not have his present to Christine adorned with any other stones. No diamond, no ruby, nothing. Perhaps it was all he could afford. Unless of course, and more than likely, its plainness held significance. Like himself, he loved dearly but did not profess it through fancier, flashier displays by adding additions to it.

And gold itself is the most superior of all metals. It is the honor given the first place.

In her grasp, Avril took the advantage to hold it, fingering the surface of the outer rim. Smooth on the outside, but inside, words had been engraved. _Fate links me to thee_.

"If you don't mind, Danièle," came Christine's voice from the room, "I'll take the white gloves for the green gown."

"Not a problem," replied Avril. "Oh, Christine. . ."

"Yes?"

"I. . . I don't think we should take too long while we're out."

* * *

True to her word, Christine did not occupy any more time than was convenient. How she worried and cared about her dear servant's other cares. Any other lady wouldn't care, nor would they give ear to it. It had been touching how she hurried, not lingering in the shop, asking too many opinions about her color selections, and being a naïve little girl. Though admirable, it did not touch Avril's heart, not particularly.

Back at home, her sister hovered but kept a distance. A sour mood had contorted the face. If anything, it must be anxiety or frustration for their sister; at least, that is all poor Melicent could assume. Their tea had been taken silently. Her elder sister had laid out all the fabrics, a book of potential materials for gowns. Instead of being allowed to make any observation, Avril turned page after page in her lap.

"He said he should be late," Melicent cleared her throat. "I wouldn't have you stay all day while you have duties-"

"Melicent, I told you," groaned Avril. "She gave me the rest of the day off. I'll catch up on everything I need to tonight. Besides, she's getting all worked up about having a lady's maid. The girl isn't cut out to be a countess if she can't even bear letting a maid make her bed; how is she to stand up for herself at a table of noblewomen at dinner?"

"Poor girl. I'm sure I would feel the same way."

"I'm sure you two would get along swimmingly," muttered her sister. "Melicent, there's no point waiting down here. You've got a headache again. It won't get any better sitting down here waiting for the doctor. Go to bed."

"Laying down, sitting up, it doesn't help I'm afraid. I don't mean to be complaining-"

"But it's also bright down here. At least, you may close up the shudders upstairs. It'll keep the light out."

Both girls startled at the knock of the door. Initially, a great anticipation for the doctor excited them. But then, seeing their hope false, Avril suddenly froze counting more than one shadow beneath the crack in the door below. If there came more than one, it was either a pair of creditors out to collect their bills or the gendarmes. No good ever came in more than twos.

"Well, what a surprise! Avril!" declared Bertrand.

"Bertrand?"

"You surprised to see us?" From behind him, the lacy, and rather immodest décolletage of Vérène leered at her. Gaspar had come along too, with his puppy eyes and windswept locks all drooping. Ice entered her veins. It had been the boy's voice that night, and she'd run from him.

"Didn't expect to see you here," said Bertrand. "Mind if we come in?"

"Oh, yes," Avril swallowed, stepping aside. They all entered like members of a parade, with a slow gait, more of a strut. Gaspar didn't meet her eyes. Vérène, always the buzz of a bee and the cooing bird, fixed eyes on her. The eyelashes thick and full, curly, whispered distrustfully.

"Good morning, Melicent dear," said Bertrand. Taking a hand of hers, he claimed it and pecked the top of it with his lips. "Feeling any better today?"

"Well, a little," she winced.

"He knows you're a terrible liar, Melicent. She is not well today. If you'd be so kind, Bertrand, if you and everyone could make this visit short. Melicent, please, go upstairs and rest awhile. I'll bring you a fresher cup of tea for the pain."

"If you insist, thank you. It was good of you all to visit us."

Just as her little figure set upon the journey up, a sweet, venomous snigger rolled from Vérène's long throat. "If you say so," she murmured.

"This is pretty unusual," Avril admitted, taking a survey of all three a second time.

"Why do you say that?" said Bertrand.

"Is there a problem? Why've you all just decided to stop by?"

"Just pure fancy," replied Bertrand. It was his day off. No uniform. Today, he was another civilian in his morning coat and top hat. And he seemed more rested than usually did in the morning. _He wouldn't have been out last night, would he? _a thought crossing her mind.

"You fancy, did you?" repeated Avril. "Well, would you fancy some tea? I'm just about to put on a pot for dinner. . . Melicent's going to be seen by a doctor here today."

More and more excuses seemed to tremble on the edge of her throat. Before all speech turned to complete babbling and unintelligible, Avril felt herself seeking refuge in the kitchen. Her own heartbeat could be heard in her ears, in her stomach, as if three hearts beat inside her body. _What on earth am I so nervous about? It's nothing. I have no secrets_. While she had planned on making dinner, there was nothing yet out. Diving into the hamper, she procured a couple handfuls, overflowing with potatoes and carrots. Without bothering to rinse them under the tap, the knife immediately set to the task of cutting.

His voice was low but barely audible; from beyond the swinging kitchen door, she heard what sounded like: "Leave us alone a minute."

It frayed the nerves like hunger, only worse. This feeling did not describe a gnawing, or aching. Fear? It was only last night, when she'd gone to see him, how he'd captivated the senses with his music. He left her standing in awe, speechless. It was thrill. Recalling the very tone of his voice, how it rose and dipped with the instrument's melody, angelic. . . thunderous. . . fiery. . . tender. . . raw power. . . And to think, how she thoughtlessly charged back and threw her lips into his. . . While she blushed then, it wasn't with any blush she remembered.

And now, Bertrand stood in the middle of the kitchen, leaned near the sugar jar, cornmeal, and coffee beans in a deep study.

"Timid, this morning?" he asked drolly.

"Why would I be? I'm sure it's no secret from them," said Avril, holding her voice steady.

"Maybe you haven't been getting enough sleep. You just don't seem yourself is all."

"Bertrand, I'm always well," she shrugged. The carrot in her hand, at present, was suddenly so interesting. "You need not have brought Vérène and Gaspar out of their holes to express their sympathies. We're all fine here. Like I said, we're just waiting for the doctor to come and see Melicent."

"Still plagued by the headaches?"

"It's probably her eyes or something," assumed Avril. "People with bad eyes often get headaches; a good pair of glasses might just do the trick."

"It's too bad I didn't know you were free last night. I was off duty by seven. We could've gone out and spent an evening," he suggested, innocently enough. _Gaspar, you rat! _she fumed.

"What do you mean?" said Avril. "Who told you I was free?"

"Gaspar saw you coming out of the Opera last night."

". . . Oh, yes! Well, what of it? He sees me by myself at night, and assumes I'm up to no good?" Laughing seemed desperate in attempt to brush it off. "I am always up to no good."

"I'm sure you are," nodded Bertrand, smiling in return. "Didn't know you took a great interest in opera. You used to tell me what a great bore it was in your travels."

"It's an acquired taste, I suppose. . ."

He started to approach. "Go with anyone in particular?"

"Yes." Without hesitation, and wisely so, Avril did not allow any pause to come between question and answer. "Yes, I was invited by Christine and her husband. We sat in a box seat together, right next to the Empress Eugénie and Elisabeth of Austria. We talked about everything that's wrong with men and how to depose a king."

"Ah. . . He must've been delightful company."

"What?"

Daring not to turn, afraid a look or a blush alone would betray her, Avril kept her back to him. It did nothing but goad her guardian beloved nearer.

"Well?" he taunted. His voice was now above her shoulder, passing warmly by her right ear. His head, tenderly nestled against hers. "Who is he? Must be someone special to have to run and hide from your own companions."

"You have every reason to hide if you enter the premises without ticket or invitation," Avril explained. At this proximity, confidence waned. Arms circled round her waist until both hands clasped in front in a hold. Surely, making him privy to the speed of her heart. "And in the city, the gendarmes are everywhere and at every corner. Gaspar should know better than to call out my name in the streets, drawing attention. Who knows who might be hearing."

"Yes. . . Who knows?" A long silence followed, the sound of insinuation. Seeing she would make no further attempt, he ventured farther. Gentle hands at her elbows turned her until she faced him, a face that no longer smiled. Erik's eyes blazed; his froze her. "You know, Avril, I've heard you lie to other people. You're good at it; comes almost too naturally. . . _But never before have you lied to me._"

**What do you think?**

**You think that kiss has affected him? or her?**

**What color is Avril going to pick for her gown? What do you think of Christine's color choice?**

**And Milicent and Estelle, the poor darlings? What will become of them?**

**And uh-oh, somebody's in trouble. . .**

**I did not have Erik address his reaction toward Avril, after she kissed him. I didn't overlook that, in case anybody was wondering. Don't worry. It won't be overlooked for long. And will Christine catch on? To be continued. . .**


	18. Chapter Seventeen

**Here's an update of several surprises. I'm sorry, no fluff in this one. Thank you for the reviews. If any of it is confusing, I'll clear it up with the next updates. Hope you'll stay until then.**

~Chapter Seventeen~

"With good reason," replied Avril. Try as she might, her voice shook on its way out of the lungs. He stood close enough to feel that shiver travel. "Bertrand? Leave me room to breathe. . . please."

"I hope he is worthy of you, you know?" he questioned.

"Bertrand, I was there alone-"

"Avril, Avril," he crooned. "Please, you know I don't fall for coy. I'm a police officer; I believe everything and nothing from anybody. What are you afraid of? You're twenty-two, in my reckoning, a child. These feelings and this curiosity about men are natural. Perhaps he's younger, more handsome than I-"

Laughter burst, which at least gave her a little room to maneuver out of her trapped position in the corner. "Oh, don't tell me!" cried she. "You don't mean to say you're jealous? You're jealous of some illusion of a suitor? Bertrand, I went to the opera alone and left alone. And I was very much alone in between. Since when have you ever trusted Gaspar's word over mine, or Vérène's word over mine?"

"I trust you in all other matters, ma cherié," he purred. "But when it comes to this, the woman's heart is treacherous and double-edged. I'm not trying to interrogate. I'm not accusing you of anything."

"Yet," she affirmed, an eyebrow raised.

"You think I'm worried about love, who holds your heart? I'm not so much concerned about the man who holds your heart as _the man who holds your secrets_."

"What?"

". . . Is there another? _Avril, about this, I'm serious_." Five fingers clasped over her forearm, a little clammy around the palm but cold. "You're not sharing our secrets with any third parties, are you?"

"About our raids, secret journeys, and false identities? About our connections and all business conducted under the cover of darkness? Do I look like a fool!" she growled.

"Someone you _love _is someone you will _trust. _Don't make that mistake."

"So I see my loyalty and duty all these years has amounted to nothing." Insulted, she forcefully dragged her arm out of the hand. Never once did she dare break away from his hard stare, which accused sharper than any word. "When you came to us, and took us all under your wing, it was with gratitude that I willingly devoted myself to repaying you, in every way possible. I have mastered everything you've taught me. I've taught myself. I've learned to support myself, all thanks to your instruction. You gave me the confidence to betray the conventions and principles needed for our survival. . . You've been there when there was no one else," she faltered. "There's been no one but you. And you know, deep down, that you are very much respected and admired. Don't insult me by saying I am any less than that."

The water behind started to boil, making a little steam rise. During that long minute, that neither of them spoke, it had been the only sound in the kitchen. It took that long for everything to sink in, and it worked, his features were softened, even remorseful. And that natural, reckless air returned the smile. The very smile she'd always been fond of before.

"I should apologize, calling you a child," he owned up.

"Well, you love me, so you say; shouldn't you trust me too?" she shrugged. Avril's smile a little weaker, more exhausted.

"I know better than that, my little silhouette," he chuckled.

"You're probably right. I wouldn't trust me either."

"Maybe eventually, an understanding will grow between us," he sighed. "But I don't trust a young woman as yourself to be unwavering, just yet. I will be jealous until it grows to be. If I will be your dearest, darling husband, I will expect more constancy."

"As is right." Avril shook her head, cocked, shrugged, simpered, exerting every charm. The only thing unnatural was the color in her cheek.

"You'd cut a lovely figure in red," he observed, with slanted and narrow eyes. "Like a queen of hearts."

"I'd prefer you be surprised," she protested playfully. "Don't tell me what to do. You know better."

"Indeed. My silhouette is not a creature to be commanded-"

Her smile suddenly fell, not fading but vanishing, in an instant. And her blush gone with it. "Bertrand. . . If you want the truth, I don't really care for that."

"Care for what?" he chuckled.

"Don't call me your silhouette." This turned out to be surprising. It even amazed her to see that he took offense. "I may take orders from you, but I am a free agent. I am no more your servant than I am a child."

"Since when?" The upper lip curving downward made a ripple in the mustache that made it impossible to disguise the hurt. "You've never minded it before. It's. . . well, what would you call it? an endearment. You wouldn't like me calling you darling or sweetheart, would you? My pearl, my goddess, like some milksop?"

"Goodness, no!" she laughed. "No."

"So, you just don't like it anymore?"

"Things do change."

"Aren't you a strange one."

Standing so close and having waited for a break in their dialogue, it was finally long enough. Taking her into both arms, Bertrand closed in on the prized lips. Never more forceful than when fueled by possessive ardor, a fear of losing. It was strong and potent, weakening, so that her own eyelids couldn't hold themselves open. Yet, somehow. . . it was crushing. Maybe it lasted too long, maybe he held too tight, maybe it was hand in her hair or upon the small of her back. Some unperceived factor stirred some panic. While at first Avril had welcomed the embrace, she was beginning to shrink back, or at least resist. Before she could struggle, his lips released her. Ten seconds of stolen air left her lungs heaving for mercy, and heady.

"You are a treasure," he murmured. "Of no small worth."

". . ."

"You'd be wise, then, not to give me any reason to doubt you again. . . my little silhouette."

It didn't occur to her, while in his arms and with her back against the countertop, they'd somehow come dangerously close to the knife-box. In the world of cons and cutthroat, this was one of the most deadly positions to be caught in, when one may be made vulnerable to a blade at the throat or in the back. . . Avril reacted instinctively, trying to push off.

"Calm down, will you?" he sniggered. "You just have a loose thread coming from the shoulder. See?"

Her dear guardian, with one of the very knives in hand, waved it slow and in plain sight. And ever so gentle, dramatically gentle, the blade slit between garment and thread, painlessly grazing. A silent, relieved breath was released. Her eyes did not stray from the knife until replaced in the knife-box. For as long as he didn't trust her, clearly now, she learned she would never trust him. Love, or its similar cousin, affection, didn't change that.

Interrupting his next thought upon his mind was a boisterous fist thundering at the front door. More than likely, it was the doctor. Vérène and Gaspar stepped out of view, ready to duck out through the back door. Bertrand sidled right alongside her. The expectation of an older, salted looking man shocked them both, to find themselves greeting a rather young, familiar face.

"Estelle!" cried Avril. "What on earth? Are you-"

"Yes," nodded she, accompanied with a sigh. "It's me. I'm home. . . Well, you going to receive me home again? give me that earful and that beating within an inch of my life? Avril, let me in."

She couldn't have been gone for so long, acting instead as if she'd simply took a stroll out in the city a few hours ago and lost track of the time. In a medley of parallel anger and astonishment, Avril took in the return of her sister. Despite the wear and wrinkle of her shoddy-looking frock, and haggard appearance of a week spent in a prison cell, the step still swaggered, shoulders carried high. Amused at the scene, her lip was cocked on one side.

"Well, well, it's about high time someone took notice," she said, but looking up to Bertrand. "But I do thank you, Bertrand, for your hospitality and such comfortable accommodations during my incarceration."

"We had several delays." The man did not sound pleased.

"What's going on?" asked Vérène. "Bertrand, you didn't do this?"

"I had nothing to do with this. . . Well, I mean, I didn't expect you'd have been out today, Estelle."

"Of course not." Her pair of twig arms crossed in front of her chest. "You took your own sweet time."

"But. . . the money. . ." Avril stammered. "Bertrand, what about the bail? I paid you to pay for her release."

"Well, the shop owners didn't drop the charges," he defended composedly. "If they don't drop charges, that makes it even more tricky."

"Last I heard, or at least from the constable," informed Estelle, "is that the family has dropped all charges and washed their hands of me."

"What? Just like that?" said Avril, her head shaking.

"Whether that was their choice or not, I don't know. Maybe you could ask that friend of yours."

"What friend?" mumbled Gaspar.

"I don't know him. Some older man, looks like an Arab sheik or some other, said he was a friend of yours."

It wasn't to say that they were friends, or to say that he knew her, but to disclose the man's nationality: nothing more stupid could have come from her mouth. Avril tried not to take it with any hint of betrayal, and that fear of Bertrand's confirmed suspicion. In a sidelong glance, the misgiving in his eyes had renewed. He wasn't just any man or friend. . . but her mediator. By the mercy of this one man, she'd escaped the wrath of the law, the wrath of several countries' courts of law. He was a debtor.

"More or less," shrugged Avril. "Hope you gave him proper thanks."

"I was almost deported. You think a simple 'thank you' would do? I'm not an ingrate, like some people," she said, biting on her final remark. "He said he would come visit later."

"When you are mistress of your own house, you may invite whom you choose, Estelle. While I'm in command here, don't take any such liberties, especially considering your stupidity and-"

"What's this?" drawled Vérène. Those blood red lips, teased over a flashy array of sterling teeth. "A friend of yours you won't see? Sounds rather interesting to me."

"It's none of your business."

"Is this the friend you went and saw an opera with last night?" teased Gaspar. "Looks like I was right, Bertrand. Can't trust a girl anywhere-"

"He's a friend of mine, not yours!" snapped Avril. "And as he is not, I'd appreciate it if you'd all kindly spend your evening elsewhere."

"Oh, come now!" protested the boy. "Why, you're such a poor sport!" And there, erupting into laughter which Vérène heartily joined.

"I mean elsewhere. Go. Don't hang around my door or windows, and don't spy on this house. And that goes for you too," eyeing Bertrand, for good measure. "I'm my own master, not a servant. And you do best to remember that. Now, please go." The door was flung open.

"What's gotten into you lately?" remarked Gaspar, sulking out.

"I told you, Bertrand," Vérène vindicated. "Told you it was another man."

"I know what you told me," he muttered. "Now be on out before she bites the heads off the both of you," chuckled Bertrand. "Avril-"

"Don't worry yourself," she assured, rolling eyes. "He knows nothing, and he'll continue to know nothing about us."

Turning back, a curious expression dwelled with her long after he left. Just as he spoke rather softly, threatening almost: "Give M. Khan my regards."

Without the necessary weather stripping on the door, and inside a house of thin walls, it wasn't safe to say one word without it being heard by any passerby on the street. Gendarmes had called on them on one than more occasion when the eldest and youngest sister were in a tirade. And for Melicent's sake, who always had to make peace or retreat, Avril stormed into the kitchen to vent rage upon every vegetable with her knife for the soup. Many times she'd tried to answer why Estelle had been worth the trouble. _Is her freedom and our family's unity worth the collision of worlds? She's an idiot, I'm an idiot! All of us! _Such was the violence of pent up emotions, her hands trembled. _Bertrand knows him. So he must. . . or at least, he knows about Erik. Would he? How many men of the Middle East reside in Paris; they could be counted on one's fingers, probably. And if Bertrand knows the good, law-abiding Daroga, then he must realize that more has transpired since the night I was nearly arrested. And he'll know that this man knows my secrets. And he might know that Erik knows every one of my secrets. . . Idiot! Daroga, what on earth would possess you to become so charitable today, of all days!_

* * *

Many and heavy were the thoughts weighing upon her the rest of the day. Ever since that intriguing hour, four o'clock in the afternoon, peace had left the house for good. To be sure they'd gone, Avril checked out the windows to see that Bertrand and the crew had kept their word. Daylight was dimming. By the time the doctor arrived, the soup on the stove had nearly finished its cooking. Estelle gorged herself greedily on the broth. Since her return, few words passed between the two sisters.

Avril had not begrudged her for the petty crime and the disgrace of being arrested for it. If anything, she was not a hypocrite. And she could not say she was completely indifferent to this strange turn of events, and the generosity of the Persian for turning attention to her sister. While Melicent breathed deeply, lying in bed, trying to calm and regain her breath after retching into the wash bowl, Avril attending, assisting the physician in any way possible during examination. It was then, the thought occurred, that Nadir Khan had not acted alone, perhaps.

_But why? If he did, why would he do anything for me? _she wondered.

Nadir came late, just as Estelle had warned her. As cordially she treated him, Estelle was cold about it. He was neither welcome or a disturbance. But like her sister, when moved to show appreciation for anything great or small, it was most reluctantly expressed. Estelle came up the stairs, still carrying her dinner serving, and announced their visitor. She'd rather be left to eat than to speak to anyone now.

"That's fine by me," grumbled Avril. "Just go and sit with them. I'll be up in a minute."

It was a shame to have to show him welcome and offer him a seat in her house. It had been embarrassment enough when Erik stopped by, condescendingly 'visiting', one evening. The Persian possessed a warmer, more human heart than his so-called friend, and therefore more prone to pities and kindness.

"So we meet again," he said, standing from the ugly chair. Rigid but no longer formal. The sneer had gone.

"This is a surprise," mumbled Avril. "To say the least."

"Well, where are your manners then?" he scoffed. It was as good a greeting he was going to get from anybody here. "May we sit down?"

"Why?"

"Thought we might talk."

"About my sister?" she asked warily. ". . . About the bail?" The man made no attempt to explain, to lift the veil. With a self-righteous sort of air, he welcomed and took himself a seat. "Am I not to know why you've come? why you would help my sister? or why and how you've come to know so much about us?"

He chuckled softly, but merciless. "You know, there used to be a time it was me asking all the questions, and only to be rebuffed."

"Please, Daroga," she groaned, blinking slow, "if you have a purpose in coming here, tell me what you want. You want my thanks, I suppose."

"Talk about surprises, that would be a surprise. . . But no," he said, shaking his head. "I didn't expect anything."

"I appreciate what you did for my sister."

"I'm sure."

"Might I ask you something though?" An honest and upright man such as him couldn't be trusted. It was no simple thing to ask him, and she nearly shied away from asking. "You didn't really do it, did you Daroga?"

"Well, that was what I came here to tell you. I had nothing to do with it. I was just a messenger."

"Did he really. . . ?"

"So you had absolutely no idea he was doing this?" Now, the man took it rightfully surprised. The young woman had expected nothing of the kind from him, not kindness anyway.

"Did he say anything, why he did it, I mean?" she swallowed.

"Erik did say he felt bad for something he said to you last night. He stopped at the flat this morning with a wad of bank notes, specifically requesting it be used for the release of a Mlle. Estelle Chasseur. And he said, whatever you do, not to go in while Officer Boldvieu was on duty. Go through the constable and see to the matter with him."

"Oh. . ."

"Does that make you any wiser?" he questioned, noting the downward turn of her brow.

"I'd say. . . he probably had good reason," mumbled Avril.

"But you and Bertrand, the officer, are pretty close, aren't you?"

"I would say so. . . or I hope so."

She smiled as she spoke of it. She shrugged while saying it. It was with all the conviction of a little girl, naively and devotedly standing by her father's word. But in her voice, in that soft, uncertain murmur, Nadir heard with a pang of pity. Pity, for her! Of course, it could've simply been emotion, words spoken under strain, exhausted. It could've been concern for her sister above them, attended to by a doctor for an ailment they couldn't put their finger on. Or perhaps, it's the wild fancies of a thief, having swam too long in a dishonest society, being plagued by suspicions against everyone and anyone. Having answered, her attention distinctly turned elsewhere. A pile of towels unfolded sat untouched on the divan; too eagerly she took to it.

"Avril?" he called, meekly and warm. "Is there anything you wish to tell me?"

"What have I to tell you?" she rebuffed. "Unless maybe do not dare pry into my affairs again, I wouldn't know what else to say."

Her insolence had lost its sting, the irritation it usually inflicted with him. The Persian did not react. "Are you sure?"

"What?" she snapped.

"Are you sure everything's alright? I know about Boldvieu; he's a rogue. He lives two lives, and he's friends with people on both sides of the line that runs through his world."

"That's not anything I'm ignorant of, Daroga."

"Do you trust him?"

"He's never failed me. I think he can be trusted."

"Never?" he echoed, more sternly. "Never? You borrowed money to pay the bailiffs, which you sent through him, and he didn't do anything in service for your sister."

Avril's heels clapped hard against the floor, unwilling to endure it, and quickly losing patience. The annoying habits and the meddling and unsolicited counsels of this self-imposed friend were just what Erik described. It turned her into a caged animal, pacing the room, feeling the iron bars close in like the truth always did, and jeering voices on the outside.

"Did Erik send you here tonight, to try my faith? Daroga, he doesn't like Bertrand; he's probably uncomfortable that I have a friend who's a member of the gendarmes. And he's a wanted man, is he not?"

"Erik's going to be along in a few minutes," said he, matter-of-factly too. "I think you may take up your quarrel with him. I merely came to see that your sister is getting along here. You're no kind of role model, and already proved to have a bad influence on the girl. I'd hate to see another innocent soul go down the wrong path-"

"Estelle is accountable for her own actions," defended Avril. "Just as I am for my own."

A throat cleared in the background, coming from the bottom of the stairs, where the doctor warily appeared. A man of heavy beard, ginger-colored hair, and a thick build carried a somber aura wherever he went, but all doctors bore this, as it came with the profession. In the field he practiced, it was only bad news he had to relate.

"I'm not interrupting, am I?" he asked meekly, low-toned and heavy in the voice.

"No, you're not," sighed Avril. "Beg your pardon."

"I'm sorry, we haven't met," he said, observing the Persian's presence.

"Just a friend," he excused, refusing to introduce himself.

"Miss Chasseur, perhaps we should talk in private," suggested the good doctor.

"Did it go well?"

"I've made a thorough examination, but I think it would be best to hold off telling the results until your parents return-"

"We have no parents here," she answered hardly. "I am head of the house. And I've no secrets from my friends."

". . . If you insist," he nodded reluctantly. This speech had apparently been rehearsed and done many times.

"What's going on?" she demanded. "What have you found?"

"It's not good, I'm afraid, my dear," he replied, shaking his head. "You told me a couple of her symptoms, about the persistent, severe headaches and the vomiting."

"Yes," nodded Avril.

"But you called it nausea. When I spoke with Melicent, she did not describe feeling ill before any occasion of vomiting. It just occurred suddenly."

"Yes. She could be just fine, sitting here in the parlor, then suddenly darts for the kitchen sink. I don't understand how it occurs without warning, even when she doesn't have a headache."

"But there are other things I've discovered. She's also complained about her vision; did she tell you that?"

"And sometimes seeing things in double. After hearing that, I thought she might need spectacles. . . It's not that though?"

"In addition to that, I've found a few peculiarities. She has a stiff neck, and has trouble turning the head. And her eyes, well, in one, the pupil in the right eye is dilated, but just the right, not the left."

". . . Why would it do that?"

". . . They're all the symptoms of a brain tumor."

He said more, plenty more, but beyond that, Avril heard nothing. The older man's voice just came in a distant echo. The air had thinned out all around; even the smell of the stew from the kitchen had lost its scent and all appeal. A hallow stomach became prey to a terribly painful cramp, clenching, throbbing against the inside of her ribcage - one, long spasm. Agony. . . And gone was the ability to breathe, and all capacity of thought.

The doctor stayed briefly, and was hastily dismissed by no words from her lips. Someone else had stepped in and taken over. He gripped at her arms, squeezing, trying to make the blood move through her veins.

"Avril." Nadir was shaking her, all too gently. "Avril. . . please sit down. . . Where you going? Avril!"

Her body walked from his grasp, heading in the direction of the front door. Outside, there would be air, but it wouldn't help. The lungs only swelled with shallow pants. He called out again, begged her to stop in vain. No consideration had been given to the cold. Out she started without even a shawl. The refreshing cool of the evening now bite the skin like icy winter. No breeze. No moon. Fog veiled all view of the sky. People walking past, no more than shapes, blurred images. The faster her pace, the more obscured they were in her field of vision. The walk quickly accelerate to a long-stride, and from her jog, a full-fledged run.

_'At the most, one month,' _he'd said_. '. . . plenty of bed rest. . . only morphine. . . There's nothing else to be done for her. . . It's too late. . . too late. . . Expect some pain, a lot of pain. . . pain. . . There may be seizures. . . seizures. . . One month. . . One month. . .'_

When she had finally stopped, unable to run no more, there was a loud cry from the heart of Paris. A long, shrill howl, coming from near the Seine river, resonate of pure human sorrow.


	19. Chapter Eighteen

**Hope that this is something that will be anticipated and meet the expectation because I am nervous. This chapter not only took a lot of thinking, but also a bit of research. When I started this, I said, I'll challenge myself. I'll write a fanfic directly spinning off Leroux's novel, no traces of the musical. So I kept those songs out, but then, I couldn't help myself! I've got a song in this chapter, no not Phantom. Don't worry though. I mean no copyright infringement, and because it's an older song, maybe it's safer to use in a fanfic. But I own nothing anyway.**

**To PunkBumbleBee: Thanks for the compliment. I admit, this is not my best work. Probably my most successful story, in reviews, would be La Tragédienne. Now that is a blatant Erik/OC story, but it's more of an OC+OC girl+OC boy. The woman he comes to love is a widow, so instead of just one woman, he ends up falling for her children too. Anybody who wants to may check it out.**

**To Nakia-Park23: You're right and onto something. Our dear Daroga already pointed it out. Bertrand didn't do anything to help her sister. . . Yeah, trouble ensues later!**

**To Hugabouv: I think your pen name is cute by the way. You used to like Bertrand, I think. How do you feel about him now, or after you read this chapter?**

**To Brambled13: You're right too;) There is change in the air. But what do you think, compared to other things you've read, is it original or can you almost see things happen? Just curious.**

~Chapter Eighteen~

Out of breath and wearied, trapped between a stone wall and the drop to the river, the body fell limp against the brick. The hand covering her mouth did nothing to squelch the sob; her body heaved with it. The twilight was a heavy gray, but it wasn't full dark yet. People she had shoved aside, or who walked the bridge overhead had full scope of her. The thought of them, the nosy, dangerous, unrelenting public, however, meant nothing now. The thought of discovery, the thought of a gendarme walking nearby, being arrested, the ball, the raid: they could not bring her to her sanity.

"I'm so sorry. . ." she uttered through a strangled whimper. "Melli. . . I'm so sorry. . ."

The years turned back, as easily as the page of a book. Disconnected from the world around, Avril reveled in the brief flashes of many years. Why, the very day she'd been born, both she and her father had been outside the room. A doctor and nurse inside attended their mother through the agonies and screams; then, after all those hours, to hear the screams of a new life. The first smile. . . the first laugh. . . the first steps. She could hear the squeak in the floors as Melicent bravely stood on those tender soles, distrusting them. With time and growth came the first words. And Avril, proud of her title 'the big sister,' couldn't have been more zealous than if she were a schoolteacher: saying words, correcting them, correcting every sentence out of her mouth, explaining everything in the world she knew. Never bothered that poor babe one bit, to be dragged forcefully by her sister. Whenever she cried and hurt herself, there was no cooing and soft words. _'Quit your crying! It only makes it hurt worse.' 'Don't worry. You won't bleed to death from one tiny, little paper cut.' 'I told you it was hot. Serves you right!'_

When she herself learned to read and write, Melicent became her first student. With each key to a new field of education, Avril had opened this little girl's world: to geography, to math, to history, all the classics and great works of literature, with some art and music. Melicent knew all the great painters and composers same as her big sister. And she loved them and admired their genius, just the same as her sister. For Avril, the works of the great minds were to soon become loot; this was a fascination. But Melicent simply learned, and learned enough to have appreciation. After a couple vicarious lessons about the piano, her dear, little sister had been her only audience, her only admirer when she sat down before the instrument. . . turning pages for her. . . clapping at the end. . .

Bypassing all the unhappier memories in that time, all the death, mourning, a remarriage, bankruptcies, evictions among others, it was a happy childhood. Through it all, she smiled, always craning her neck until she grew tall enough to look her big sister in the eye. There'd been one or two young men as well, much to Avril's anticipation and annoyance, who called her pretty, sweet, beloved. And they all wanted to call her so much more than that. _'They can't all be perfect and charming, Melli dear,' said Avril, scorning the sentiments of her fourteen year old sister. 'You know that our hearts are just a plaything for them.' 'Don't flirt unless you really like them. Give a wrong boy the wrong idea, you'll be sorry.' 'What on earth do you see in that goosey fellow at the bookshop? All freckles and those crude teeth of his - it's like a bear's head on a man's body.'_ None of them should've caused Avril a minute's concern. None of their love and admirations for this tender beauty could outweigh a sister's devotion.

_Why didn't I just let her have it all? let her pick any boy she pleased? _Avril lamented. _Any brainless, awkward, silly flirt would've made her happy. Why didn't I urge her to take one? She could've been happy, even for a little while, just to experience a real marriage. Real love. A husband would've treated her much better than I have. Why? Now all that chance is gone. Only eighteen years. . . and it's over!_

That beautiful fantasy with shameless luxury, endless riches, in the most perfect, secluded hiding place on earth burned. It burned, crumbled, sunk, collapsed, and smoked. What was it without her? Every landscape, a desert. Every house, no matter what it looked like in dreams, would be no more than a reminder of what could have been. And how bitterly she wept now. It rendered her incapable of recovering. There was no more reputation for strength and courage and will left anymore. To her own shame, she'd not known she'd been followed. It startled her, stirring her instinctively back to her feet. But her body still depended on the support of the wall.

"If you have another note for her, I suggest you pass it yourself," she hissed. "I'm done with that!"

"Avril-"

"What do you want with me?" she seethed. The shaking and the quiver in her voice couldn't be controlled, something he observed with endeared pity.

"Avril," he called her again. His words treated her ears like they were made of glass. "You needn't explain anything."

"Explain what?" snapped Avril. "You can follow me anywhere. No doubt you've heard; you probably saw. . ."

"That's why Erik is here," he said simply.

"Just leave me alone! Why can't you just leave me. . . Leave. . ." It took too much energy to speak, reviving the sobbing. "Just go. . ."

"You don't mean that-"

"Why not? Just go, will you. . . Just go, like everyone else. . . What do I need you for? I don't need anybody, like I don't need her for anything. Melicent is not that sick. . ."

"But you know she is-"

"No, she's not! The doctor's wrong about her! She's always been on the weaker side. She gets colds so easily. And her eyesight has not always been great, so what?" she gasped for air. Painfully, she persisted. "My sister's a weakling, Erik. It's not that bad. She just needs to get out of this bad city air. Warm climate will make all the difference!" Her voice, now at a dangerous level, could be heard in the streets above. Fearing to be seen, he advanced on her, gripping her by the shoulders.

"You are upset, Avril," he whispered. "But don't make a spectacle here."

"I'll do whatever I please!" she screamed. "Don't tell me anything. She's not dying!"

"Don't try to pretend-"

"I'm not-!"

"It's only making it worse," he said. Then with a rather violent shake of the shoulders: "Avril! It's a lie what you tell yourself. Don't try."

"_I have to! _I have to because I have to tell her the same. . . I have to tell her she's just. . . She's just. . . just anything but. . . I can't! Anything but that! I can't! Erik, I can't. . ."

Once again, and yet expectantly, he'd been surprised. It would've been more natural to have found her leaning against the river's edge, shedding a few silent tears, a little angry, a little indifferent, and bemoaning. She had done that. But not this. Wild and weary, he felt her head, her whole figure leaning. One second, she struggled and attempted to wrestle from his grasp; the next, clinging, weak, stricken. Her hands had balled into fists, gripping to the lapels of his evening coat. Her own face burrowed into this chest. And she lost herself.

People did this sort of thing. In grief, they naturally and without thought embraced each other. . . arms around each other. While chasing her down through the boulevards, keeping pace with her shadow, perhaps the need would arise. Erik shuddered with this contact, seized anxiously by any touch. But with the seconds, it would seem he had no choice. The hands dropped from the shoulders, to her waist, and slowly creeping behind. Seeing no disgusted reaction, it didn't stop him. Finally, both arms were around her.

Sensing it, she seemed to grow snugger, and nestled her face deeper into his collarbone. At first, these arms dared no more than to hover. But something within him eased, so that he was no longer timid, stiff, and reluctant about it. He held her. By the second, despite the ferocity of tears, he'd pulled her taunt. For how cold those hands were through the leather of his gloves, warmth emitted his core. . . safe warmth, comfortable warmth, consoling warmth, calming warmth. His chin rested on the top of her head, ultimately enfolding her. Their two shadows, one.

"Please, make me stop. I can't stop," blubbered Avril, every other word muffled by his shoulder.

"You will stop when you're done," he assured. "I won't stop you."

"Oh, Erik. . ." she groaned. "Why this? I could've. . . done anything for her, but not this. What can I do?"

"You'll know how to and when to do it. That's not your problem right now."

This sufficiently silenced her for a minute. In surrender, she cried and cried unabashed, with moans and sniffling, until the fit passed. And he let her cry. How much that alone surprised her; he didn't try to pacify tears, and he wasn't ashamed of them. . . When Erik finally untangled himself, she felt him now motioning her toward the river's edge, an arm still round her back.

"Just sit here a minute. Breathe," he commanded. Doing so, the recognizable fibers of that long cape hooked over both shoulders and wrapped her slumped frame. It still hurt, everything hurt. At this moment, however, a feeling of peace and safety prevailed. Her breathing evened out, the nasal passages cleared (with the help of a handkerchief), and the stormy clouds of nostalgia vanished. In the end, left with a sensation of peace.

"Why. . ." she struggled at first. "Why did you come?"

"Why?" he repeated. "Well, Erik worried about you after the way you left the house, especially since you were coming towards the river."

"Really?" She didn't believe. "You were worried?"

"Yes."

"No one. . . no one ever. . . worried about me before, except. . ." Avril shuddered. Too fresh was grief to even think of her, to speak her name again without breaking down again.

"I am sorry. Erik is truly sorry," he murmured. "And Daroga is too."

"Did he. . . tell you about her?"

"Erik heard everything, when he came to see you. And he heard the doctor while you were there," he explained nervously. Should that have been said?

"I can hardly believe it. . . I don't want to believe it. She's so young. It's not fair. Poor thing has had more than her fair share of things over the years. . . How can I tell her she's going to die, and. . ." Avril sniffled, at the very thought. "And the scary things that will happen to her before. . . She's. . . she's already in so much pain. . . I can't bear to think how painful. . . if it will be. . . when she starts having seizures. . ."

"Don't think about it now," warned Erik. "Just breathe."

More tears rolled, though more quietly this time. "What now?" Her head shook slowly. "All those years I've put into. . . all the money I've made, all the risk. . . and the thrill of it, it was all for nothing."

"What are you talking about?"

"All that robbery and the cons I've ever done, it was all for a better life, Erik. So that one day, I would never have to be reminded of our days of poverty. And my sisters would never have to worry about it anymore. Estelle doesn't deserve any of it, but. . . she deserved it. . . I wanted her to have everything she wanted and everything I wanted. . ."

"Naturally," nodded Erik.

"I know you don't believe that. But I did want a better life, for them too, not just myself," she shrugged. Then more sourly: "After all, I've invested so much into the endeavor. Flesh and blood, right?"

From the silence, she could hear the apology. It lasted awhile. Her eyes finally lifted up to the street across the river, now bustling with people and flickering in the streetlight. They'd long since faded into the shadow, where no one simply glancing could perceive them.

"That was part of the reason why Erik had your sister freed," confessed Erik. The youngest sister had nearly been forgotten. She hardly mattered now. If this news had befallen Estelle, it would not have had the effect as it had with Melicent. And knowing her, Avril didn't expect much sympathy from that quarter. Even if there was pity, it would be abhorrent. "Hope that you'll. . . forgive Erik for that. Didn't wish to say it to be spiteful."

"I know you didn't," sighed Avril. "It seems such a stupid thing, now, to be angry over. I'm so. . . so tired. . . I'll be happy once the ball is over, and this whole thing is done."

"You mean to say you're still going ahead with-"

"I don't care. . ." she sniffled again. "It's too late to go back on things now. People are counting on me, and. . . well, if I can't afford Melicent a good life, I'll at least give her every last comfort. And Estelle will. . . need something to live on. She certainly can't look after herself."

"And what of you?" he asked.

"I don't know."

This couldn't be more uncomfortable. Shifting and forcing himself to breathe, it all seemed hopeless to him. What does a person like her feel? He never sought comfort from sources outside, none except in his music. It did not comfort, though it did consume and exhaust the numerous torments of mind. To have no one and nothing, he felt like a stranger to her, at a loss to what a broken heart could need. And it was broken, no denying that.

Avril mumbled soft into the bony shoulder, even leaning into it. When the meaning escaped him, and asked her to repeat, it hardly sound like her.

"Thank you," she exhaled.

"Why?"

"For just. . . being here now."

"Why? It's not as if anything is better with you because of Erik. Nothing he can say will save her. . . unfortunately."

"I know that. . . Actually, I thank you for not trying. I'd rather be miserable now than later." For it had been the most sincere, guilty, penitent, heartfelt expression ever to pass her lips. Nobody else in the world she could think of could've done better for her, in Erik's place. Pity, from him, was tolerable, maybe. . . even soothing.

As words were easily lost, they each gave up the struggle. When the need arose, there would be plenty to say. And looking down at the water, in which so much personal history had taken place, the yearning to tell increased. Then, up on the street, hanging about close to the bridge, there stood a little girl. Her little frock suited for no better than potatoes, matted hair, and pasty skin. In her hand, she held a debilitated straw basket. With each face that passed her, she begged them for business. Her product today appeared to be white and pink peonies. More fascinating than her, to Erik, was the way Avril had become fascinated with her. Her eyes fixed on this pathetic creature.

A pair of older boys came along, street urchins like herself. Like the brutes they are bred to be, they teased her, pulled at her frock and her hair. One knocked the basket of flowers from her grasp, while the other snatched the tiny pouch from her wrist containing her precious coins. Of course, she could do little, but she did try to protest. It won her nothing but a quick slap on her cheek. Off they ran, howling and laughing over their loot, yelling and deciding to spend it on some candy or scotch or some other. Tears welled quickly and freckled her now flushed features.

_That was her, of another time_, he guessed. _A little street rat._

Avril slowly returned to her feet, letting the cape fall to her ankles. Back the way she came, she made her way back up the steps to the street, around and across the bridge. The child was already beginning to walk away. Head hung low and the whimpers were soft. What few flowers had not been savagely tread down had been saved. She'd been stopped by a soft hand that landed on one of her shoulders.

"You shouldn't be out here so late," said Avril. "It's dangerous at this time of day."

Hardly able to grasp it, those wet eyelashes blinked out of surprise. Reaching deep into the pocket could be just as reaching deep into her heart. And it wasn't just a couple coins or a handful, no, but bank notes. At least five unrolled from her wad, and knowing Avril, every note was worth ten francs. By the stupefied look that grew, the child gawked like the angel of mercy had sprinkled manna into her very hands. And the tears now were those of awe.

Only once the pitiful creature disappeared from view, skipping for home, with riches to last a week, Avril watched with inward satisfaction. Perhaps one day, when fortune smiled on that child, as a woman, she would be generous to some other poor beggar. And those hopes and dreams would continue: the hope that there is good in the world, and the dream that tomorrow was always better than the day before. Vain and wishful, at best.

* * *

No matter where she ventured that evening, Erik stayed loyal, stride for stride. There wasn't even need to worry about the streetlight, or all the lamplighters. They remained unseen, walking through the alleys and the darker parts along the boulevards. His habit of keeping out of the light was hers as well. Few words passed between them. Both minds were in far away places, so it seemed. For each one had always been used to walking alone. With such solemn silence, the two could've been simple strangers. . . walking side by side.

Avril cared not for the chilled air. The thick moisture any slight breeze visible to the eyes. In the light, it appeared like smoke. Moths and other insects gathered like the lamps were a grand ball, and danced. Darker and darker the night grew. All baking and broiling done in the shops died away, giving way to the aromas of roasting meats, stewing vegetables, and the charcoal baked permanently into the oven. Homes and tenements closer to the metropolis always smelled of food. Poverty kept the kitchen active, for fear that one day there would be nothing left to be eaten. Bertrand used to tell horror stories about the Prussians and Germans, and how they lay siege to Paris in the early 70's, eager to starve the capital to submission. And Paris had bided its time with cats, dogs, rats, even animals from its local menagerie.

Leaving the center of the city, the architecture and size of each house improved. No artists, street musicians, homeless, foul and good-for-nothing to litter the landscape. And the air overall seemed cleaner. A stagecoach rattled passed them here and there. Men returned from offices to blazing fires, pretty wives, three chattering children, a greyhound lounged near his chair, a cocker spaniel in the corner basket near his wife, heaping tables with stainless tablecloths, and some port wine for after their supper.

"Not this way," Avril shook her head, turning heel against the eastside.

"Ah, your mother," he recalled. That had been a strange night. "You must come this way often."

"It's a morbid curiosity of mine I could never explain," muttered she. "It always disgusts me, but I can't keep away. Every few days, I would go and spy them out from the house across the way. I have two half-sisters and a half-brother, all still nursery age. Who would've thought?"

"Whatever became of your father?"

"He's dead."

"Erik knows that."

"What?" she shrugged, listlessly. "You mean, how did he die?"

This wasn't one of those terrible tragedies, a narrative that need be told with a curtain, detailed portrayals, or tears and a handkerchief. How many orphans were there in the world with very similar histories like her own? And most of them had fared worse than her and her own sisters. The family suffered its losses and heartache like all of them. With a bottle of uncorked Madeira, a monologue ensued.

The father had been a man of many professions, as he could not hold down one job for very long. He'd practically done everything under the sun, except fathering. It's hard to be good at that when a man is so amorous of his drink. A stupor lasted from morning until night. The hour the taverns opened was the hour of his sunrise. There was always a stench about him, a spicy sweetness; at times, it proved strong enough to water her eyes. Such a habit constantly distressed her mother, vexed her, and roused terrible rows between them. In spite of this, however, Avril did not find this man so thoroughly despicable as most people would judge him.

People, especially women, looked down keenly at her, all soft-eyed and teary. They scanned every inch of her skin from a distance, looking for blue and purple discoloration, swollen eyes, missing teeth. In all honesty, he was a drunkard, but not an angry one. None of his own family was ever touched with a fist or violence. Aside from the occasional reprimands of his wife about the drinking, he was a kind man, kind, hearty, and indulgent when it came to the wishes of his girl's hearts. No doubt, without sons, his eldest daughter naturally fell into place as the boy. He'd treated her as such in general, which began a rather masculine education. Shocking to genteel society, though not uncommon living just above the gutters.

"You probably know what that's like," she said. "There are no friends in this kind of life, only partners and clients. Business."

If a whole family was to eat and have a bed and a roof, a woman would not be spared of manual labor: factories, sweat shops, unions, and so forth. There was nothing dainty about it. By the end of the day, after slavery and toil, liquor never tasted so refreshing. With each swallow from the neck of the bottle, Erik could see the plump, indolent slug, hear his loud belch, and the screams of his odious wife. When it came to his death, there wasn't a tear in her. Either she had none to shed, or there was none left. Nothing indicated her mourning, or any especial sadness.

"One day, it just drowned him," she described it. Drowned had been pronounced with more pain. Sadly confessed, as worthless as the man had been, it was with his death that set in motion the end of childhood. And perhaps, it could be said, the end of innocence.

"Don't know what I would've done if it hadn't been for Bertrand," replied Avril, shaking her head. "At least, when I couldn't think for myself, he was there to bring me back. He looked after all of us, even when our mother was still at home."

"How did she land a husband so well off?" questioned Erik.

"She worked for some book shop that he frequented often in the city. She liked philosophy and he liked poetry," she remarked bitterly. "Didn't take very long. Went on for six months, and then she just didn't come back. Married him. I never saw her again until she was carrying his first child. She begged our forgiveness, and that unfortunately, due to our rather lowly birth, she could bring no children by her first marriage into that happy home and taint it with association. That was _supposedly _his stipulation, not hers."

Her foot dropped suddenly, stepping off the sidewalk, which nearly threw her forward. It was enough to bring Erik to putting an arm around her, easing the struggle of equilibrium.

"Perhaps you've had enough," he scolded gently. Her grasp on the bottle wasn't strong, and hardly putting up any fight for it. Under normal circumstances, a half-empty drink of this size caused no ill effect. But then, Avril never had had a dying sister before now. "Shouldn't you be going home? Your sisters will be worried-"

"Let them worry," she snapped. "Estelle can take care of her. . . It's about time she does something for us. And you don't need worry, I'm not a drunkard-"

"Just slightly tipsy," he corrected. "Come Avril-"

"Oh, please no! Don't make me go back," she pleaded. "I'm not ready. Besides, I want to show you someplace. I'm not going to be here for much longer. I want to show you before I go."

"Go where?"

"Where else? Into exile!" laughed Avril. "Where do you think I'm going?"

". . ."

"What? Did you think that. . . I meant go as in leave the country, not go as in die."

"After that visit from the doctor, and the sudden flight from the house, Erik thought you ought not be left alone-"

"Oh, for crying out aloud!" How instantly the change, from laughter to snarling. "I have endured everything else, and never once thought of a deliberate demise! Give me some credit!" Shoving his arm away, she propelled herself forward with a bit of a stagger. "Have you got a match on you by chance?"

"What for. . . ?" Just as the realization struck, he caught her stooping desperately for relief. The end of a cigarette clenched between her lips, while a hand fished into all pockets. "_What the devil has that beast done to you! Give me that_!" A lightning swift hand went and swiped it.

"What is your problem!" cried Avril, reaching from under his long arm and height. "Erik!"

"Do you know how terrible these things are? Who taught you this?"

"Just give me that! I need a little-"

"Avril, enough!" he growled, trying to block her. "You know what this is?"

"It's calming, and it helps-"

"Erik has seen plenty men do this, smoking, with opium and others. It ruins you."

"I don't care!" she vented, feverish and frantic.

"This, this is your suicide!"

With one motion, all the same, snapping it in half, the unlit cigarette was pitched against a brick wall. Somehow, it stopped her in her tracks, silencing her. It would've seemed she lamented the waste of it. Looming beside her, above her, Erik waited for the storm. Instead, it was only rain clouds.

"Why do you care?"

No reply.

Her lips mouthed it, so lost, helpless, baffled. . . Once again, humiliated, the back turned and flight was attempted. Some man on horseback nearly trampled her in the street as she dashed across, and an old man, innocently sitting on the sidewalk, flinched as she ran passed, almost tripping over him. This wasn't a young woman frightened, hurt by a harsh word, not the weak spirit weeping for herself. If she had not said what she did, Erik would not have connected it.

_Worthless man! _he raged. Whether it was the father or Bertrand in his thoughts, it didn't matter. Everyone had had their share in wrongs.

"Avril!" he called out. "Avril!" Dispensing with the wine to the startled homeless man, he started to chase. Of course, she didn't make him exert much effort. Around behind the building, rather abandoned and run down, she'd come to a halt at a door all boarded up. Fiercely, her hands pulled at the wood, splintering skin regardless any pain. Tears glistened both cheeks.

"Don't lie to me," she gasped. "Don't pretend anything; it's insulting!"

"You think even Erik would think so little of you? Enough, stop!" he commanded. Instead of a death grip, his hands, round both her wrists, were a rather mild restraint. Avril's eyes had closed, closed off from him in her fight against all emotion leaking from them. "Erik does not lie to you, though time and again you lie to him. There are plenty worthless and evil who walk this earth. Believe Erik, he is like them. . . You are not."

The sobs had her reeling again. "I can't be. . . believe you. . . I can't believe that. . . myself. . . How. . ."

"Do not think these things, now or never. It's selfish, and you know it. There are several, you know well, that care for you, Avril. Even Erik envies that."

"Who?"

Few came to mind, but only one he could vouch for, genuinely. ". . . Melicent," he answered dryly.

"Who else is there?"

". . ."

"Who?" she groaned. "Who? There is no one else."

Certainly, she would've named Bertrand. Sadly, Erik saw he had succeeded. Something between the two had changed, from one night to a day. Now, it was regretted. For Christine too had been disappointed, hurt in the heart, at the knowledge that her strangely, lovely angel was a creature of a black hole, with nothing heavenly to bestow but his own voice. It had been enough.

Avril writhed weakly, beyond her wits, losing temper to grief, and facing the traitorous frailty of a true human heart. Do we hate her? Do we pity her? But never before had Erik looked on this creature and beheld an innocent soul. Innocent, not as a person, but within. For all these worldly opinions and the experience with it, she had been as naïve as Christine herself. Typical of one who could deceive anyone and everyone else but himself.

"Erik wouldn't lie to you." The drooping eyes that wouldn't look up quickly irritated him. So, he would force her to believe. One of his gloved hands dropped a wrist to cup the curve of her lower jaw, coercing her eyes to meet his with all the former spirit once in her. It was still there somewhere. Heartbreaking tears rolled to his fingertips. "Erik will never lie to you. You are worth caring about, Avril. Your sister knows that."

"Yes," she agreed, sniffling. "But. . . Melicent doesn't know me. . . She has no idea what I do and what I am, which I'm grateful for, true. Oh, if she only knew the things I've done, Erik. Estelle knows. And she's ashamed."

"Do you intend to change that?"

"No. I am sorry that things are. . . the way they are, but I can't see my life any different, Erik. I couldn't confess my crimes to her and have the nerve to beg forgiveness on her deathbed, as if her mercy were divine redemption."

"Avril, you've thought too hard and long about this." Feeling uncomfortable, he released her and shifted the topic. "Why don't you show Erik what secret you were meaning to. . ."

It seemed to work. Unhinged and prone to tears, Avril gratefully returned to her task. Suspecting now that he spoke something sincere and heartfelt, he was instantly a companion, a confidante. Three wood planks were pulled off and set aside, wide enough a space for both her and Erik's slender frames to slip through what was once the door.

In its living days, it appeared to have been a hotel of some sort. The architecture dated and the furniture old-fashioned. Its capacity filled with so many possibilities of exploration, discoveries. Former guests could've left things behind, as treasure to be looted. Bypassing all these hopes, he followed the girl's eager path up the three flights of stairs. In the mind of a thief, constantly running, constantly looking over the shoulder, this place would be a perfect haven. And to rise so high, it was a bird's nest. One could look down and see without being seen. Coming to the loft, the room had been left threadbare. No openings in the roof but a single skylight. A rail had been placed around the gable outside to resemble a balcony though it was not. Avril knew just where the latch was located, shoved on the window pane until it gave, and opened the glass to the sky. The roof rose above most houses and tenements around them. The view of the street below, incomparable; although it was still nothing to the view from the rooftop of the Opera, Erik could see its charm.

Down a little ways, near the opening of an alley, some few people gathered about in the square. During the day, it was more populated and traveled than evening. Still, it brought those who could not resist the aura of moonlit evenings in Paris. Many tourists stopped here and enthralled themselves with the sounds of amateur artists Paris had always been famous for, for music. He was a violinist.

"He plays here two nights a week," informed Avril. "Then he goes to another street across the city. There are some regulars who come to hear him, even making some dance. What do you think? Is he good?"

"Well. . . he plays to please them, and he knows it," said Erik, proudly.

"Of course. I mean, for a street musician, he is good."

"Plays well, anyway. But not exceptional."

"He's a happy musician. There are some artists who think music is no real art unless it's dark, thunderous, and gloomy."

"Like Erik, you mean?" he retorted.

"You said it, I didn't," she shrugged. Since it was sarcastic, Erik more than indulgently allowed it. Better laughter than sorrow. As she took to sitting on the brick ledge, and glancing up at him, and to the opposite side, it was meant like an invitation. Here, no one would see him.

"I'm sorry you've troubled yourself tonight about me. I really didn't mean to have you follow me around and have you endure me, all blubbering and complaining. Don't know why. I can't stand people like that around me, and here I am. . ." Worsening the situation, a blush crept into her cheek. "Well, never mind."

"It is a dark night," he said. Literally, it was dark without stars, without moon, heaven blanketed by a fog. The lamps of the street being their only moonlight nearly made it impossible to see. Avril perceived only Erik's shadow, except for the gold flickering eyes when they gazed into the light and the glow upon his black mask. _He looks better in the white one._

"What did you say?" she mumbled.

"Nothing. It's dark. . . tonight."

"I would prefer that to a full moon. Although, a bright night is much prettier a sight."

"Erik likes the bright night, and the full moon," he nodded. "It is the closest thing he has to a sun in the sky. And the sun cannot be looked at, whereas the moon one can gaze on."

"Suppose so."

"Were you to live as Erik does, you would seek out any beauty in the world that could be glimpsed."

"Maybe so," agreed Avril. "But you know, where you just found me earlier by the river, I used to like going there as a child. I liked sitting there a long time, even though the waters stink sometimes. Since I couldn't travel then, I learned to like what was here in Paris: this abandoned house, that smelly spot by the river, poor street musicians. . . the sapphires in a necklace."

Erik chuckled. "Always goes back to that."

"Bertrand or Vérène, any mercenary can look at stones and see a price, money. I would steal it merely for the possession of it."

". . ."

"It's more. . . well, how could I explain it? It's not so much to seek beauty in the world unknown as seeing beauty in your own world."

A mild applause sounded from the direction of the square with the conclusion of one song. And having felt Avril had embarrassed herself enough, her head tilt and leaned forward. The young man blushed and muttered over his praise. Now was her chance. And knowing him well enough, she, a great admirer, lifted a boot. In here was always kept the pouch of coin. Inside boot leather, no jingling could be heard. A very liberal handful was scooped out. Erik nervously anticipated, and held his breath as the coins were thrown.

Across the walkway they scattered, pattering.

"Pierre!" called Avril. "Play my song, won't you?"

"What song?" The startled young man turned and looked everywhere, unable to find his patronizing specter.

"You know, that one that sound Italian! Please!"

Erik couldn't help note the pride and exaltation with which the young man received this request. For Avril, very much in a similar way, patronized like the Phantom himself: sweetly and anonymous. And from that little smile, she enjoyed her amusement. The violin began, warming and attempting to recall the precise tune.

"Does he sing too?" asked Erik.

"Never heard him sing before."

"This song usually has lyrics."

"Does it? I never knew. . . Do you know it?" He hesitated. "Erik, would you, please?"

"What?"

"Would you sing it for me?" No reply. "Please? Come now, I'll pay for it. . . I'll pay anything to hear. . ."

She wavered a moment, unable to permit herself to finishing her sentence. This, from a woman who'd never once begged in her life. His voice, without a doubt, was worth its weight in gold. He bestowed a great favor to let her be a rare member of his audience, to live to hear it. As the song began to play, however, she gave up hope on that endeavor. Christine, she knew. _Only Christine. That's all he plays for, all he sings for-_

"_If. . . our lips should meet. . . Innamorata_. . ." sang an angel. Yet again, her jaw had numbed. "_Kiss. . . me kiss me sweet. . . Innamorata. . . Hold me close and say you're mine. . . Where the love is warm. . . as wine_. . ." She stared. Only this time, she hadn't the strength of mind to hide her astonishment, her awe. . . The tenor! The words even! His eyes were heavenward, seeing stars that weren't visible. The heartbeat quickening, the blood warming, and breath shortening. "_I'm. . . at heaven's door. . . Innamorata. . . Want. . . you more and more. . . Innamorata. . . You're a symphony. . . a very beautiful sonata my Innamorata say! that you're my sweetheart. . . my love. _. ."

He faded as an interlude strummed on the violin; the musician's bow languidly flourishing over his instrument. Couples paired together, swaying to the lilt. The rhythm smooth as a wave, and they like shells moved in its wake. Avril observed nothing, none of them. When his gaze lowered out of the sky, settling on her, something moved within, causing her to shiver. What was he doing? seeking approval from the angels, and being granted none, his heart falls back to earth?

"_You're a symphony_. . ." he continued. Now, there was no more room beneath her skin to keep the smile out of her lips. "_A very beautiful sonata my Innamorata say! that you're my sweetheart. . . my one. . . and only sweetheart. . . Say. . . that you're my sweetheart. . . my. . . love_. . ." Violin and voice mingled divinely, bringing heaven and earth together, until all sound little by little softened, and ebbed.

**Dean Martin, those singers back in the day, wow! Now, they were real artists! I've been wanting to do this a long time, set this song to Phantom of the Opera. If you listened to this song, it's so beautiful, and then imagine Erik singing it. Who wouldn't pay to see that!**

**Please, though, don't be fooled. After tonight, there's still two days left until the ball. A lot can happen in two days. At least, I got to let him sing a song, a favorite of mine. Did you like it?**

**Yes, I know I'm driving people up the wall every time I say it's not over yet, or don't get your hopes up. And I don't mean to make readers hate Christine and fall for Avril in her sweet moments. Avril is an original character, although, she was inspired of a certain woman of the classics. I won't say who, because some people can't stand her, or the book she comes from too. Maybe later.**

**To all readers: Thanks for your loyalty. Question: what do you imagine Avril looks like? I don't mean does she look like anybody, but in your minds, what does she look like. I'd love to see her through your eyes!**


	20. Chapter Nineteen

**Boy, all those reviews, you guys are the best! The best! It was fun and funny, all your versions of Avril. Someone even thought her eyebrows were a little bushy and thick, but still feminine. That really cracked me up!**

**This chapter's a little shorter, so expect disappointment. But with several surprises. Still own nothing. Enjoy and review, please, can't wait to know what you think. For the record, I think the most pitiable character of them all is the good Daroga.**

~Chapter Nineteen~

Still expecting them back at every hour, a candle still burned in the house. Although, Avril may as well have entered to a dark house. She saw nothing, nor felt, or thought anything. Both cheeks now had been wiped dry; exhaustion had drained what tears had pooled in her eyes before. Nothing had been left. It was like feeling dead, except for the breath still flowing in and out. Inhale. Exhale. They were louder, more congested now. The liquor aided to the extent of dulling that headache that crying induces afterward.

"Can I-"

"Start tea, Daroga," ordered Erik. And by his tone, he ordered his friend to lower his own voice. "Just go and lie down a few minutes," he whispered near her ear.

With as much horror as pity, the Persian witnessed this. And the girl lazily drifted until her knees faced the divan. He body bent slow, almost painfully, until completely reclined against the back of the faded cushions. She did not lie down, probably for fear she'd not have the strength to force herself upright again. It was the very portrait of misery. Death could not do this as well as the expectation.

"How is the other sister?" asked Erik. Safe behind the kitchen door, he took advantage before Nadir could himself.

"Wha. . . Oh, she's grieved. Of course, it struck her terribly, just as it should," nodded he. "I'm not too concerned about Estelle as her. So you were able to catch her then? Where did she go, by chance?"

"To the river."

"The way she looked as she ran out of the house-"

"Yes, Erik had the same idea," he admitted. "But despite what you see in there, she is still strong, perhaps as strong as ever. She's simply stunned, overwhelmed. . ."

"Heartbroken?"

"She cannot even think of her, it's cut her so deeply, Daroga. Erik's handkerchief was soiled by it. She shook like she was cold, and wouldn't stop. She almost refused to believe it."

"I'm not surprised. I just. . . That look on her face. She's a hardened one, that girl, Erik. That's what scared me most. We know her, and I know how she is: not easily afraid, not so easily touched, the feelings are shallow. She barely thanks you for a good deed, and to thank me earlier, she acted like it was a torture. . . And then this. She looked like someone who's walked across a battlefield and sees dead bodies by the hundreds."

"The fight is in her, Daroga," said Erik. "Erik is not afraid for her. It hasn't been a whole day yet."

"I'm sure this will change her plans though pretty drastically, if anything." Closing the tap, he bent down and began applying the necessary kindling for the stove. So carefully he handled the tea kettle, it didn't clang and clatter. Erik looked down on it contemptibly, its age showing in the charcoal black and rust on the outside. Something so small, a tea kettle, of all things to think about, when the whole house could use improvement. _This should not have been a home, not their home,_ thought he. "I suppose she'll have to give up on their grand assault for the ball. She'll have to look after her."

". . ."

"Erik?"

"What is it?" Just as if he hadn't heard a word, Erik's eyes flicked back from their drift towards the window.

"Erik, she is. . . going to. . . Isn't she?"

"Going to what?"

"She's not still intending to go through with that raid of the de Changy's, is she?"

"As of now, nothing has changed, Daroga."

"After all this, and she still must-"

Warningly, he interrupted: "Do not judge her as you would-"

"I do not want to judge her, Erik," he snapped. "I want to help her! And yet, rocks come before her own flesh and blood."

"So you cannot understand. Maybe you simply won't understand her, Daroga."

"Well, what does she intend to do, leave the two younger girls behind?"

"Let Avril work that out for herself, and mind your tone around Erik." As the two men had come so close, nearly face to face, Erik brusquely shunted him from the side with a shoulder. His friend was not the only one disturbed by this fact, though he concealed it. Avril knew honor. These were sisters; regardless whatever they do and don't do for her, they will not be forsaken souls. From the night they'd verbally consented as allies, he made no scruples over past or future.

Whatever she did, whatever lie in store for that upcoming night, Avril could be trusted to her own actions. But she was not the one in control of things. Only Bertrand: the sun and moon, the clock, the tide, the storm, and the wind of her realm.

"What's the matter?" Nadir nearly jumped as his friend was startled by some inward force, propelling him toward the door.

"Christine," he groaned. "How foolish - Erik has practically forgotten."

"Of course," he sarcastically grumbled. "Well. . . Actually, I'm surprised. Erik," he paused, "I am surprised. For the last couple hours, you haven't thought once of Christine? Didn't assume that possible for you."

"Are you amused by that? Why do you smile?" he replied, offended.

"Maybe. . . But it didn't last long. I guess if she's waiting for you, then you must keep your word with her. You know by now I can't stop you."

"Good man. You're a good man, old friend-"

"Wait, wait. What am I supposed to do with. . . ?"

"With what?"

"What do you expect me to do with _her_?"

"Avril," he corrected. And it was not pronounced as a question. "Erik does not expect anything. So you don't care about Avril; you don't have to try. It might offend her, your begrudging pity. Might be best if you leave. Avril will look after herself, and her sisters."

"It's not like Melicent can be left alone during the day though."

"You speak, Daroga, as if no one in the world cares about her, and as if Avril cared nothing at all."

Erik did not slam the door as he left, though angry human tendency had him in a vice grip. These situations the two men found each other in lately had become all too familiar, scenes replayed from their personal histories. This is what came of one when he got too close to the other's personal affairs, or people he loved. It had been tragic enough.

While he endured it, tolerated it, and lived with his own mistakes, the thought of another soul walking the same path put fear in the heart. When others controlled Erik, governments and countries, people suffered. Avril did not believe and would not believe this of herself. No one but a dangerous man could hold a dagger like her.

* * *

"I'd almost given up hope."

Brides-to-be slept poorly nearer to the wedding day. Nerves. Rushing over on the tips of toes, Christine admitted her early morning visitor. His shadow peered from the window until she saw and slid the glass upward. As the moon was still out, it set the masked features aglow. The eyes, however, appeared to have wearied.

"Won't you come in, Erik? What is it?" she asked.

"Erik has taken enough liberties, my angel," he explained, nodding. "And it's too late to spend much time lingering. Hope you haven't been staying up the whole night waiting, have you?"

"I had hoped you would've come sooner," she confessed, blushing. "At least, won't you see your present."

"What?"

"Yes, I. . . Well, I. . . got you a present. For the ball."

"That is very sweet of Christine to do, but there is something Erik must speak with you about. It won't take long."

"If you wish, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt you." Innocently shaking her head, sobered, she obediently lowered to her knees, to the level of his own eyes. Standing, she had been taller than him. This request was not a celebrant petitioning mercy from an alter. Never before or now had Christine desired a feeling like homage. His hands lay atop hers, undisputed. Although, her left hand did fidget a little beneath. Gloves covered all five fingers, naked, concealing her loss as long as she possibly could.

"May Erik ask a favor of you?"

"Anything, please," Christine gasped, smiling. "What is it?"

"Do you know who all is invited to your ball in two days?"

This had not been foreseen, which showed in her expression. One of disappointed perplexity. "Well, no, not all of them. There will be a few people coming from the Opera, like Mme. Giry and Meg. The managers will be present, as far as I know. But I know few of the people, like Raoul's friends and family-"

"Is there a way for you to be certain?" Erik persisted. "Have you a guest list to refer to, anything of that nature?"

"No. Why?"

"Do you recall if there is any name on the list by the name of Boldvieu: Bertrand Boldvieu?"

"I cannot recall. Do you know him, Erik?"

"Never mind that. If you'd please, find out if you can. If he is invited, it's imperative that he not be admitted into this house."

Of course, it elicit the most natural reaction. In their history, Erik warned with or without good reason. "Why? Who is he?" demanded Christine. "Is he dangerous, you think?"

"There's a chance he may be invited. Your boy, during our time together, involved the police in his pursuit of the Opera Ghost. There's a chance, either out of courtesy or concern, he may have extended invitation to some members of the gendarmes."

"But he wouldn't do that," protested Christine. "Not without telling me."

"Find out, my angel. If he has, you must object to it. This man, Boldvieu, is a member of the gendarmes but with no history of integrity. He's a rogue and a mercenary."

"What do you mean?"

"Christine, if you knew all that Erik knows, you'd be afraid. And if you knew how I've come to find out, you'd despise me-"

"Erik, I don't understand. You talk in riddles-" Christine's weight altered awkwardly between each knee, as if attempting to stand up.

"Trust me, Christine. You must trust your Erik this once. If he comes to the ball, something disastrous will come upon all members and guests of this house."

"What has he done that's so dreadful? Please Erik, don't frighten me without giving me cause-"

"You need no cause or reason," he muttered impatiently. "Just do as Erik tells you."

". . . Alright," sighed Christine. "I'm sorry. I. . . I will see what I can do, if it means so much to you."

"Erik won't let you be harmed, my angel. If you must believe anything, believe that," he assured, softened and gently mannered once again. "Christine. . . The world is a dark place, as dark as the catacombs where Erik resides. Full of deceit, death, cruelty-"

"Not everyone is like that though. It's a shame you've only known people of that sort, and never had a chance to be known by truly caring people."

"Erik does not lament that; it's no loss. . ."

"You seem not yourself," she mused. "Something bothers you, Erik. What is it?"

"It is not. . . Well, you are aware somewhat, of how Erik has suffered in his life, but he has endured it. It's bearable. More bearable than seeing that of someone else."

"Who do you mean?"

If it weren't for the thought of Christine, waiting for him, he might've passed the night there, at her side, where duty told him he belonged. Though, it wouldn't do Avril any good if a man were to be seen going from their residence. Out and about through the city, he walked in the peace and quiet of an evening on duty through decent neighborhood. Wherever he went, people nodded in respect or fear. That badge and his metals gleaming in the moonlight, wearing the color of a military hero, revered like he'd become God in human form. If the Devil ever took human form, however, he would be the most handsome specimen of the mortal race.

Given the choice, Erik should've took satisfaction in rendering justice in a way the law would never do to him. Out of contempt he would, not for what the man was and he himself wasn't, but for the authority he stood in the life of that child. A child made by corruption.

"Erik, is there someone with you?" Christine voiced worriedly.

No, it couldn't be true! He was not a man caught, or found, or seen. He was a creature of the imagination, a superstition, a product of the absurd and impressionable brain. And as such, the complete appearance of a real phantom, invulnerable to human error. Nobody rendered him as human as one woman; nothing else but love could prove a man made of flesh and blood. And of all times, it was here and now, someone proved him to be human.

"Don't you dare move," he threatened. "Not an inch, monster! I warn you!"

Impetuous, wide-eyed, every hair bristled, the young man was only brave enough to step forward, out of the shadow of the garden hedges, pistol cocked.

"Raoul, no, it's alright!" cried Christine. "Please, there's no need for that."

Erik waited on the boy, though he did not respond. Plans were only forming with the second. By the frosted, seething glaze in the eye, patience had come to his end. Raoul had seen all. Christine sighed for him, pitying and sympathetic, and very sorry for him. The both of them.

"If this is anyone's fault, it's mine, Raoul," she asserted. "Please, put it away. Be angry with me, not him."

"Should I be?" he asked incredulously. "What is it, Christine? Am I a protector? If I am, I see I have failed. . . Or, is it what I think? Am I just in the way?" The falter of his own voice couldn't muster the feelings of betrayal, pathetically enough. How it hurt.

"Please, let's go inside, Raoul," she begged. "Can't we talk about this?"

"Now that you have to, right? You never liked to talk about him before."

"Raoul-"

"You suppose you can hide in your own house?" taunted Erik haughtily. "A true monster is not restrained by walls and locked doors."

"If you had any sense, you'll be careful what you say," replied Raoul, as equally viscous in air as his rival. "Christine, I will happily speak with you. But right now, I would like a few words with your _Angel _here," sarcastically slurred.

"Promise me you won't hurt him. . . and you, Erik."

"No need to distress yourself, dear one," affirmed the masked suitor. Raoul nodded; his conviction to hold to such promise not as strong.

Doing as told, like a good girl or a good wife, the window was shut and clicked to lock. There was no stipulation, however, that she leave the window. Trepidation for both men was too much to trust either one alone with each other. They'd both returned to the house on the lake, to the living room and the torture chamber. Unlike before, the torture chamber contained the both of them now.

"Stay back," shuddered Raoul. "I'm not afraid of you. If we must fight, I would prefer it this way: face to face, man to man. Didn't think you had the courage for that."

"Not afraid you say?" sniggered Erik. With his advance, Raoul's eyes were starting to turn upward in order to stay eye to eye with him.

"Stay back, or so help me-"

"When was the last time you checked inside the barrel, boy? Just out of curiosity."

"Checked. . . the barrel?" stammered Raoul. "You don't-"

"There should be four rounds, shouldn't there?"

As pale as death, as pale as Erik himself, Raoul was turned. Especially in the moonlight, this dread was confirmed as he opened the chamber, discovering it emptied. The most dangerous possession of his person, now, was the cannon of his own mouth. And as of now, even that weapon had been rendered useless.

"Well, I suppose there's nothing I can do to stop you now," he sighed. "If you want your revenge, have it out and done with here and now, monster. Only let Christine alone."

"This has nothing to do with you, little Comte," Erik replied, suave and sinister, holding the keys to this torture. "These visits have not been my wish, but Christine's. Yes, this is not my first visit."

"What?"

"That's right."

"Christine, she's. . . But I'm sure she's only been afraid. You must've threatened her if she told me about your coming."

"Why would she? My nightly visits were her idea."

"You lie!" Raoul's breathing ragged. "You lie. . ."

"If you are concerned, rest assured that no harm or dishonor has come of it. Your childhood sweetheart is an angel. That Erik knows well, and you, her friend, do not."

"I don't believe it. What do you aim to do? Will you haunt her the rest of her life, lurk about the estate, leer through our windows, pretending it's yourself instead of me with her inside?"

"Erik does not envy you, boy. For the first time, Erik no longer envies you: your riches, your beautiful face, nothing. Because it has not held Christine's heart. It has not satisfied her longing for music."

"There's more to her life than music!"

"If that were the case, she'd be happy. And she's not!"

"You lie! Always!"

"She asked me, Erik, begged him to see her again, night after night. She wouldn't do that if she-"

"And what to you think? You think if she had no one that she would love you? What makes you think she will change her mind, after all the twisted tricks and devilish lies fabricated to win her? And you did not win her, that you must admit!"

Both men seethed; for both were silent, refusing to gratify the other that they'd been defeated.

"Dear Comte," said Erik, "you are free to say anything, condemning Erik for anything of the past, his crimes, his injustice, and any repercussions it's caused Christine. Question is: where do you stand now? Does she really love you? And if not, _will you let her go free_?"

"I don't even think that is a question," Raoul declared. "I was willing to take her away from you, even though it would mean no benefit to me."

"That's easier to do than surrender her to a contender." He smiled, and laughed, the fiendish laugh that scared her terribly, knowing he shuddered too. "I would wager that with a hideous face, you too would not fight fair for her!"

"Is that so?" sneered Raoul. "Is it worth challenging you if it were a fair fight?"

This gave him a moment's pause, and it didn't sound all too displeasing. In fact, Erik felt the boy deserved credit for once. Instead of plotting behind his back, this was before his face. "Is this a challenge?" he questioned.

"It remains to be seen. So far, since you allow me to recall history, you have never accepted Christine to make her own decisions. Would you be willing to take her word as final, if she refuses you again?"

"Yes."

Now, Raoul's turn to be surprised. "So, give her a choice, she says no, you will walk away? leave her forever?"

"And will you vouch the same of yourself?"

". . . I think I will."

"Go on then," nodded Erik. "What do you propose?"

"I. . . Well, let's tell her about it. Give her a couple days to decide. . . Two more days, at the ball?"

"Why not? Seems as good a night as any! Very well, go inside tell Christine to make her choice then. If she is content as is, she will tell Erik herself, and he will disappear. Never will you and your family be bothered by the Phantom's shadow ever again. . . If she will choose me, follow me, we will disappear. And you will not follow us or attempt to find us. You will voice no complaint with the authorities or with our mutual acquaintance at the Opera."

"If she chooses you," added Raoul, "I'll send her off with my blessing, token of my most valuable jewels of my family's collection."

"Overconfident, isn't it?"

"This is not a bet, let's make that clear! I can part with anything earthly valuable because I trust her. She's never broken her word with me, which is more than I can say of you."

"So you still trust her?"

A smile, ever so slight and darkly, grew across that fair boy's cheek. An expression not his own, but mirroring the man before him. "You've trusted her with your ring, haven't you? Where is it? I haven't seen that ring on her finger for days."

". . ."

"Devil take the hindmost. . ."

For there in the night abound more thieves than the masked man. He'd succeeded robbing a titled nobleman his own dignity, while he left, speechless, with a faith shaken.

* * *

Crows echoed, and were loud at this time of morning, just as the city still sat at the breakfast table. It was more effort than it was worth to cook, to eat anything. Estelle's stomach howled out of pain, showing in the disgruntled features. But even she hadn't heart to protest. At least, all the organs in her body functioned. Tragedy had its humbling way. Then, if this morning could not have been any worse, the sidewalk and street became dotted in drops. With the wind, they were to grow heavier quickly.

"Is he going to take credit?" asked Estelle. "We've never done business with him before."

"He'll have to," said Avril, half-yawning.

"And what if he doesn't?"

"He's an apothecary, not a moneylender."

"But what if he won't let us-"

"I don't know, Estelle. I don't know."

Some women ducked out of the bakery across the way. Catching sight of them, their eyes went stern, scathing them, and quickly shying back up the boulevard.

"You know, since we're in these parts, you should've put yourself together a little more," argued Estelle, eyes rolling. "We're getting stared at because of you and your trousers."

"What do I care?"

"What's the matter with you?" Estelle yawned again. "Where were you all night? I was the one looking after Melicent. Why do you get to be tired? And. . . uh, why didn't you at least change your shirt and waistcoat for something else? You smell like the river and a bottle of whiskey, just like Father."

"Madeira," Avril smirked, correcting her.

As it was too early for customers, the door opened and rang with Estelle going straight in. Morphine meant much to a person in pain. The last reserves of resources, whatever had been leftover from the doctor, was pitched into every expense now her sister would incur. Morphine, some good food, all her favorite things, and maybe flowers. All her life, Melicent had dreamed of a home with a garden. Avril secretly promised herself to give her that when hard times ended. At least, when the poor girl closed her eyes or drifted in and out of sleep beforehand, she'd not see whitewashed walls and a dirty window too rusted to open. Only beauty and color.

The crows took flight from the rain gutters overhead, hurrying for shelter, and squawking frantic. Rain flowed down and splashed out the pipe, right near her feet. And thankfully for the rain, it was impossible to walk without squishing or splashing. A couple pairs of footsteps stalked near her, trampling through a toe-deep puddle. Instinct scared her against the brick wall, as was always cautious. And with good reason she'd moved, two officers had suddenly appeared round out of the alley.

"Did he give a reason?" questioned one.

"He's labeled it as obstruction of justice," replied the other.

"Must've been good. New evidence?"

"I don't think so. But he knows the man, and he's got reason to think he hides something. Something he hasn't been straight with us about; even the constable has starting giving it attention again."

"Wait, wait, we're not talking about that eccentric who came with that story from the Opera about the kidnapped soprano and the sweetheart Vicomte?"

"From what Bertrand told me, it sounds incriminating. And he doesn't like him."

"Is this the address here? Why does he wait for a day like this to get a warrant? I'm already getting a sore throat."

"Won't take us long. He's an old man. _8230 Rue des Tuileries. _It's not like there's many hiding places in a neighborhood like this."

Estelle had not finished her business in time. Upon coming out the door, her elder sister was a blur, dashing off headlong into the rain. It would be only a matter of minutes; she had only that much to beat the gendarmes there, to think of something, to save their skin and hers too.


	21. Chapter Twenty

**You came back! Thank you. I apologize if I left you confused with the last update. In a few minutes, you'll find out what's going on, just exactly what Avril heard anyway. And I also apologize to Samantha Michaelis, you offered to post a picture of my story on deviant art, if that's what you called it. That was very nice of you. I'm sorry I forgot to say anything. Yes, feel free to post your link in a review.**

**By the end of this, Avril will have some pretty sore feet guaranteed! Please review, it will help.**

~Chapter Twenty~

The rain stung, blinded, and added weight. It trapped in her topcoat and filled in the boots. And caught in it, she was apart of the elements, going upstream. Bertrand had never been defied, not in this way; doing this, an act of double-crossing and espionage, an ally of an enemy, could not be forgiven. Anyone caught in the act was abandoned to the punishment that befalls all cowards and deserters. In the world of politics, which Avril had brushed up against in several fraudulent ventures across the Continent, they took it seriously. The rich and powerful, even, did not escape judgment in these crimes.

When a man in love is betrayed, his dignity is wounded, pride crushed. The heart goes feverish, then cold, and back and forth again. Who can account for his actions by then?

When a great criminal ring leader is betrayed, has no choice if he wishes to keep alive. Cover his tracks, and cover over the ones who betrayed them. . . in a bed of earth or to a body of water.

Avril couldn't run fast enough. But with all human capacity in her, she came to the address of Rue des Tuileries. They were already there. . . Three gendarmes. . . One of them was Bertrand, knocking at the door!

_No! No! Don't answer the door, Darius! _she wished. And wished. _Don't answer!_

Lights moved inside the flat, around the general area of the kitchen. If she dared go any closer, she'd be in plain sight. She was helpless on the opposite side of the street, ducked behind the corner of the alley, with her wide-brimmed hat pulled low on the forehead. The heart stilled, as well as her breath, for the ten seconds until the stoutly, little manservant appeared in the doorway. Most of their exchange could be heard, even above the rain. Their voices alone, by volume, tone, and abruptness, were trained to intimidate.

"Good morning, monsieur," greeted one. "We're here to speak with your master, M. Khan. Is he at home this morning?" Darius' answer couldn't carry to her; his a voice as meek as his own presence. Nevertheless, he reacted with an expression of nervous confusion.

"It's imperative we speak with your master," informed Bertrand. "Is he home now?"

At this point, an idea sprung; there was no time to consider if it were even a good idea. Avril stepped from the alley, so that she'd been seen clear from the doorway. Fortunately, she noted his face, recognizing her, seemed to focus out. The arms crossed and waved in front of her. A finger, pointing to the men, then to the house, she waved for him. Then, clasped a hand on each of her wrists. Once again, for emphasis, she pointed back at the house, waving crossed hands in front of her. If he understood anything at all, he would know. _Don't tell them anything, Darius. Say something, anything!_

No two minutes ever felt so eternal. All that time, she waited dreadful of the things she could not hear spoken from Darius' lips. They heard him out, glanced between each other, and grumbled disappointedly. Eventually, whatever Avril had done, had succeeded. Nobody else came to the door. All three gendarmes left empty-handed.

"We'll be back later this evening," said Bertrand. "If he's not back then, we'll wait until he returns."

At least, it bought them a few hours. Avril, though, scarcely felt the sigh of relief. There was still plenty of running, hiding, and hushed conversations to pass before their appointed time. Once they'd departed, all the men each way, Avril rushed toward the house, but instead of the front door, she retraced her first steps toward the parlor window.

"Darius! Please, Darius open up!" Avril cried out, hammering a fist on the glass. "It's only me! I need to see him!"

He seemed to expect this. Both master and servant appeared in the window. Through the closed barrier, several foreign phrases in the Persian's own language muttered angrily. His visitor could not have brought any more displeasure than if the Devil himself were the house caller.

"Have you something to tell to us, Avril? What in the world is going on?" he demanded.

"It's not my fault, Daroga," panted she, leaned against the sill. "I only just found out about this all fifteen minutes ago. . . I didn't want you. . . to answer. . . You. . . You need to get out of the house while you can; otherwise, they're coming back tonight."

"Don't tell me that was your friend, Bertrand?" As he always stood taller than her, Avril did not care, but now afraid to lose a benefactor's good opinion, or rather the respect of a friend, he was more intimidating now.

"I'd feel more comfortable if we were in the house, and not in the open."

"And why should I welcome you into this house anymore?" he hissed.

"Master-" Darius tried to supplicate.

"Because I'm here to warn you. I am a friend."

"I have tried to be a friend," corrected the Persian. "And I've been repaid very thanklessly."

"I never asked for your help, Daroga!" Her hands gripped the ledge until her blue-skinned knuckles glowed white. "And if it weren't for you sticking your nose where it didn't belong, you wouldn't be in this mess! You went to his house, you spoke to him, asking questions about me, and you go bail my sister of the city jail. You think you helped us? You think it was good of you to do that for some poor, defenseless women? Is that what you think!"

"You must have a good reason for coming all this way, I assume. I've never had reason to act false to the law and the police-"

"Oh, spare me, you and your talk of a conscience. You're a hypocrite and you know it!" snapped Avril. "Will you please let me inside so I can say what I need to before I catch pneumonia?"

By the deep frown and boiling tar pits of his eyes, tarring and feathering her where she stood, she prepared to withdraw her fingers lest he slammed the window back over them. Nodding a most begrudging approval to his servant, the two men grabbed her by each arm, hauling her upward and through the window frame. Both her boots leaving scummy prints on the dry surface.

"This must be pretty serious," retorted the Persian, slamming the window shut. "I had thought you and Bertrand were always on the same page."

"You don't have to smart, Daroga, as you may have been proved right," said Avril, bitterly admitted too. "So, maybe I am not trusted, and as he as not seen fit to tell his own friends of this, I will return the favor."

"Why was he here?"

"He's come from the courthouse, with a warrant for your arrest, Daroga." This gave them pause; at last, the sobriety and attention that Avril had hoped to get. "They'll return tonight, and if you're here, they'll arrest you. If not, they're going to invite themselves in and sit around until you do show up."

"I don't understand," the man's head shook, denying. "Did, did he say-?"

"I told you I don't know! He hasn't told this to me."

"Then how did you hear about it?"

"I overheard those other two officers on their way here. From what I heard, apparently, it has something to do with your involvement with Erik and the whole story about Christine at the Opera House."

"Oh, now they're taking an interest!" he roared. Then, turning to Darius: "I don't believe them. A girl is kidnapped, a man mysteriously falls to his death, I tell the truth, and they called me delusional!"

"Wrap your mind around it quick, Daroga. This wasn't the constable's doing, or anyone's, but Bertrand. He wants you behind bars, and he'll probably want Erik there too."

"Of course," he nodded, smiling, "of course. How noble of you to come here and try to warn us. But I suppose it also _crossed your mind_, should I be arrested, I'd also be interrogated-"

"Yes, I know," sighed Avril. The eyes fell in a guilty plea.

"And if they knew the truth, the whole truth, then they'd be after you too."

"I'm not worried about me," she denied, half-heartedly. "Of course, it would be an inconvenience, but I wasn't about to let you be dragged off to prison because Bertrand is afraid of what you might tell, or because he doesn't like Erik."

"He doesn't know about him, does he?"

"I wish I knew."

Still trying to make up for lost air, Avril's pants deepened in desperation. Being suddenly inside the room, warm and slightly smoky from the fire in the hearth, her body finally began to sustain the effect of that mad dash through the rain. Rivulets drained from the ends of her loose hair, down front and back. But down the front, it went beneath her shirt so that the raindrops were right against her skin.

"Wait, wait, don't. . ." Words were no uselessly late, and the poor man grimaced, exhaled. "Wring your hair. . . over my carpet," he seethed. "Darius, will you please get mademoiselle a towel."

Remembering Erik, and the thought of his freedom at risk, Avril hoped to catch him in time. At the moment, thoughts and consideration for him could not stir her. This exhaustion was the most unendurable thing. In truth, it was more than it was worth. _I don't have to tell Erik. I didn't have to tell Daroga anything either_, she thought. _It would be so much easier if I kept out of it and let Bertrand do as he sees fit. After all, it's not my fault; it has nothing to do with me. It's not that I have personally approved it. . . But it's right. I owe both men something, and it's right, but it's certainly tiresome._

"Let me get this straight," declared the Persian. "Basically, the only reason Officer Boldvieu wants me incarcerated is because I might expose him?"

"It's because you got curious, and probably that you know about the raid that will commence at the de Chagny ball in two days."

"Does he know that I know?"

"I get the idea he knows."

"You get-" A laugh cut him short. A wry, sardonic laugh that mocked her. "You get the idea? _That's probably, barring none, the dumbest thing you've ever said_!"

"I don't know if he knows, but he won't want to take a chance-"

"What I also understand is: you intend to go through with the raid. Despite all this, you're still taking orders from this rogue. Who's side is he really on? How do you know he won't decide you're a liability and put you away too?"

"I don't trust him to treat others with any fairness, but I can get away with things, with him. We know each other."

"You know nothing! You're just like her. . ."

"Who?"

". . ."

"Like who, Daroga?"

"No one. . . Avril, I tried to tell you last night. You know what he's doing; it may be just a matter of time before he turns on you as well. I know the obligations you feel, to him, to your sister, but is it worth all that? You are young, my girl, with many years yet to live."

Sadly, nothing seemed to move behind that face. The skin itself was a mask. His own words brought him closer to tears than her. "I have no life to live," she admitted, her voice chilled. "After this, I will have done all I've set out to achieve. Don't look so cast down, Daroga," she grumbled, "I never expected to live a very long life. I hope I shall never grow to be decrepit and dependent. And. . ."

"Avril. . ."

_No, don't start again. Not with that voice_, she shuddered. _I can't endure it again, not like last night_. . . Yet, he seemed to plead, soft, warmly, approaching, a hand slowly, gradually stretching towards her. Reacting with a grunt, she jerked away until her back thumped against the wall of the foyer.

"Please, just leave me alone," she moaned.

"I'm very sorry about your sister, Avril. I know how much she means to you-"

"Don't speak of her, Daroga! Don't speak of her!" As the thrashing and rejection did not dissuade him, her wet hair whirled with the force of a whip and bolted for the door. "I must be going anyway. I'm very late. Miss Daaé's wedding gowns should be arriving this morning." The excuse merely lamed her ability to speak. "Oh, if you would be so good, and. . . tell Erik to be on his guard. You might even wish to stay with him a few days."

"Anything else?" he asked.

"Yes. . . Tell him. . ." _I'd like to see him, if he's not busy_. "Tell him. . ." _I need to see him. _"Tell him. . . that we should meet once more before the ball tomorrow night. . . to um. . . discuss things to do with. . . Well, never mind."

* * *

That long walk and drive back to the estate through the rain was readily welcomed. But mingled among the tears of heaven, Avril felt herself hidden and somewhat at peace. It solaced enough for the time to recover some of her mental stamina. It was much needed, especially arriving back to the house. She escaped the eyes of houseguests and staff, until coming near her room. Passing by Raoul's study, the air grew hot and stuffy, and her ears blazed with the sound of the young master's voice.

Of course, it would be the Comte. Christine knew not how to do it: to express one's feelings at a roaring volume, to lack self-control. Outside the world of opera, the great soprano's voice could be tread on. Catching a few words, it sounded demeaning, infuriated, and very accusing. With fear, her own heartbeat suddenly leapt, until he was distinctly heard through the closed door.

"Do you love him still? Answer me that!"

_Good Lord, this day could not possibly have been worse, now this!_

"You've every right to be angry," she pitied. "I am sorry you've learned of it this way."

"How long has this gone on, Christine?"

"I'm afraid longer than you'd care to really know. Trust me, it was not intentional, but I could not, in my heart of heart, leave him like that, leave him to die!"

"How will you be able to part with him at our wedding? 'Pledge yourself to thy, and forsake all others?' Please, don't lie to me, anymore."

"It was never-"

"If you want my protection, Christine, I will hold to that promise. I meant it with every fiber of my being!" he fumed. "I said I would do it, even if I must take you from him, from his power, even against your will. That's something I hoped I would not have to do."

A long pause ensued. Nothing was almost as worse as the yelling itself. Anticipation had her sweating. If Bertrand heard this all now going on behind the door, Avril could only fantasize of the madness to rain down. He would not wait for a ball and houseguests; he would seize hostages and take what jewels were in reach. She'd seen him do it many times before. And Avril regretted, courageously admitting it to herself, that she lacked the strength of heart for that.

An impulse flew her wet, slippery palm to the door handle.

"Master, my lady!" cried she. For several seconds, that was all that came out of her mouth. Both the boy and his fiancée stood on their feet, straight and erect, horrified, perplexed about their wide eyes that focused on her. Christine had gasped for fright, swiping at the trails of tears and pinkish stains they left. Given this chance, she turned from him to compose herself, while Raoul breathed. Slow, deep inhales, fighting the pulses of a racing heart and a boiling bloodstream. And like a man, a flustered man, he pulled at his cravat a little.

"Mlle. Perrin, the lady and I were having a discussion here, and you've not even bothered to knock. What is so important?" he hissed.

"Monsieur, I could not help myself." _I must save this engagement, for only but a day. _Donning that concerned, grieved sort of helplessness to the face: "I understand this is none of my business, and have no right to speak now. But please, I hope this will not an end of anything, especially for the both of you. My mistress, she speaks of nothing but great respect for you, master. Whatever it was, it was not her fault I can assure you. . . This whole thing has had her upset and anxious for quite some time."

"I can imagine," replied Raoul, sarcastically.

"There's been notes he's left for her, but she would not say anything to anybody about it. She knows what you both face. Your family have high expectations, and you're worried for the reputation of your marriage. She knows this all too well, master."

"I appreciate your concern for us and my family, mademoiselle, but frankly, this is a matter between my fiancée and myself."

"It is my only wish that my mistress should be with the man will make her happy," declared Avril. Shoulders squared, eyebrows raised, lips pursed - all to form the point of a dagger, concealed in the heart of every woman. "There's never been disloyalty. Just as you asked of me," she emphasized slowly, "I report what I've seen. Miss Daaé has never done anything to betray your trust."

Silence fell, with such a stunning force too, it fell upon the two. And to their observer's greatest amusement, the expressions on their faces exchanged: one betrayed and the other ashamed. Only now, it was Christine rendered speechless out of indignity. The poor boy offered no answer. It wasn't what Avril could've hoped for, but at least, the all-powerful Comte no longer possessed an upper hand. With great pride she even strut from the room, leaving him to the mercy of a woman loosed from her chains. Oh, what a show that would be: the lamb morphing into the lioness, from a mouse to a she-beast, to hear her scream and rave at him, to turn to despising him. Christine would say everything she wished to say herself.

But it would only be for the worse, were that to happen. Avril retreated to her mistress' bedchambers, fretting in her silence and pacing herself into a boiling suspense. There were no more voices, loud and echoing back her direction. No indications. No way to tell where she stood. Would there be a ball? Would there be a grand raid? Would the angels shed tears? She could still feel them, draped across her bare neck. . . its cold clasp in back. . . splayed down her bosom. With some fancy and the mirror on the vanity, she could see the prisms of light dancing on the walls. Even hear the silence, invisible people awing and revering her, with the heavenly bodies strung round her own neck. . .

The door opened, to her startle. Christine appeared, rather flushed but not teary. Rather a surprise for her, after such an incident. Whatever seemed to have happened, she did not wish to reveal to her own servant.

"Have you really been spying on me this whole time?" Christine asked, emotionless and coolly as possible.

"I agreed to nothing," confessed Avril. "Believe me, I had no desire to oblige such a man's wish as that. What I merely said was intended. . . well. . . what I mean-"

"You knew what you did, didn't you?" she said, smiling. Smiling! "Yes. Well, I can see you'd have been angry too, as I am."

"Are you?" A swallow moved awkwardly in the throat.

"In the light of certain events. . . well, that's a stupid way to describe it. But I'm sure you can guess. Raoul has found out about Erik's visits. And recalling my request. . . about the party being turned into a masked ball, he's decided to cancel the new invitations. No masks."

"I'm so sorry." _Well, does this mean. . . ? She would've said._ "A-and are you and the Comte still engaged?"

"He did not break it off. I had expected him to, but after you came in, I think he lost a little face."

"I hope so," she. It was not the character, but her true self, from Avril. "Forgive me; he's a decent man and means well and does right. But I cannot abide that in men, Christine: men, owning women. . . It's not my place, I know-"

"It's not an unpleasant thing," she replied, a defense that rather astonished her servant. "You know? It's not a horrid thing to be owned by a man, not by a man you truly love and who truly loves you."

"That is naïve."

"It is true." _Why do you smile at me? You insipid child, your simpering eyes and prettily quirked lip, telling me I am wrong! Telling me I don't know! _Nearly turned away, consumed in a violent blush of rage, Christine reached out with a hand until it touched hers. It even tugged, oh so gently. "It's true. There is nothing wrong with belonging to the one you love. . . or. . . Or even, owning him. . . the man you love."

"Why do you look at me like that?" smirked Avril. "You suppose that of me? I do not own and I am not owned by any man. It is better that way."

"But how would you know what love is then? Why not? Did you not ever feel the same about your father. . . or your mother?"

"Miss Daaé, you divert on rather personal topics." Not only did Christine flinch, but so did she, withdrawing with her back to the door. The eyes shaped and solid, blazing a glare. "This is not about me. Are you still intending to marry the Comte?"

". . ."

"Well, are you?"

"Can I trust you?"

_No, no! You didn't! _Avril's heartbeats shortened. "Trust me with what?" she asked. Blood vessels felt straining as she waited on her answer.

"Would you tell Raoul?"

"If it's your sincerest wish, I won't," said Avril, feeling sickly in the stomach. "What?"  
"I want to show you something."

Once again, the young girl looked to her treasures of the jewelry box. In here, the real gems and precious things were stored here. Pushing aside all the little necklaces and bracelets, with a silk handkerchief sitting atop them all, Christine delicately removed a gold chain with its key pendant. One might've supposed it opened a diary, as the key seemed so small in hand. But by the way she cradled it, it was more than that.

"My father and I had very little when I was growing up," she told. A little breathless and nervously, she pressed on. "We once stayed at a cottage by the sea, and it was there I met Raoul. We were probably ten and eight years old, I think. I'd been walking along the beach when a wind made off with my mother's red scarf I'd been wearing. He took off after it into the waves, saved it, and that made us friends for life. . . I'm sorry," she shook her head, after losing her thoughts to reminiscing. "Well, where we stayed, we had a key. But when it came time to leave, the landlady forgot to ask for it back. And Papa forgot about it. So I kept it."

It was rusted and so pitiful looking, oxidized and starting to turn greenish. But Christine ran a finger across its surface like it were a diamond. For once, for the first time, Avril believed she understood Erik's fascination. This girl had a way of making things look beautiful, even something so plain and unattractive. Avril felt drawn toward it, envying the love and meaning it held. And if her instinct were correct, this key now had something to do with Erik, which made it only the more. . . the more to be desired.

"I had hoped one day, ever since childhood, that maybe. . . when Raoul and I got married, we could go there again. Maybe, if he liked it enough, we could even buy it. . . It makes me wish Raoul were poor, and we were desperate enough to need it for a home. But it's not for me to ask him. . . Of course, we're not children anymore. Things have changed. Raoul is not that boy who saved my scarf. I don't believe in my father's Breton fairytales anymore. And Erik. . ."

"Erik?" A blush rose to her cheek, as if she really cared.

"He told me to wait until the night of the ball, but I've decided now. Miss Perrin, Danièle, I want to go with Erik. And wherever he goes, I will follow right alongside him." Taking her speechlessness for intrigue, Christine forced herself and felt a desperate need for an explanation. "I can just see what you think, and I know. It was selfish and cruel how I've strung him along, the both of them. It's not that I love one and hate the other. I've always loved Raoul. But this marriage was impossible from the beginning. His social standing is one matter; his brother had forbidden him to think of us marrying. And I've no doubt he'd make a good husband. Raoul is the sort of young man that could suit almost any girl; any other would willingly take him, and make him happy. He could easily replace me if I break his heart. . . But not Erik."

"No. . . Not Erik," nodded Avril, repeating dumbly.

"I left him once, and if I were to leave him again, it may be the death of him."

"Didn't you run from, for fear of the death of yourself?" Somewhat sarcastic, Avril immediately regret the impulse.

"But there is a great difference. Erik couldn't find happiness with anyone else, whereas Raoul can, Danièle. One needs me, the other could take me or leave me-"

"So what you mean to say is that. . . Erik needs you more. It would be reasonable to chose the man who could not do without you. I suppose. . ." The blush in her cheek now seemed to fill the room, changing the temperature of the air. "I suppose that is very. . . _magnanimous _of you."

"It's not about-"

"Do you. . . well, love him too? more than the Comte?"

"I do love him." Yes, without hesitation even. "If love is care, respect, admiration, and an inability to separate oneself from the other, yes, I love him. . . I love Erik."

". . ."

"Since he insisted, I shall tell him so, tomorrow night at the ball. I hope to give him this, and perhaps, we may go to that cottage together. Giving him everything I can give, what little there is, if it'll make him happy. . . And at least, at the ball, I'll be able to tell Raoul of my decision. It can be announced and done with a little dignity. It won't be so humiliating to him as having some impertinent girl run off with another man, without any shame. He deserves better than me. . . a lot better than he'll be getting tomorrow night."

Just whatever exactly Avril had said was lost in a haze of Christine's newfound cheer and the constant, continuous rain. It was almost like a fever, the feelings of hot and cold that rushed through. Back in her own apartment, safe from any of her questioning and concerns, Avril breathed deeply, but all the while shuddering. The inhales delivered no air, nothing to the use of slowing her racing heart. It was the same feeling in her chest when the doctor had said Melicent was dying, just the same.

_Is he dying? Does he think she'll save him? She thinks so, she's the angel, his angel. And does she know it! _Stripping the cloak from her soaked shoulders, she sought composure in her reflection in the mirror. This creature looking back, haggard in the eyes and gaunt in the cheeks and so pitiful, disgusted her. Women-the average woman- pinched the cheeks to force them into bloom, but there was no flesh to pinch. The farther down her eyes fell, the worse her observations. _Fair is described as lovely, but ashen. . . it's like Erik's skin. _From the neck down, all dressed and laced up, there was little figure. It wasn't so much starvation to blame as self-deprivation. She was too used to running, waiting out, staying and going, traveling that skipping a meal or two in a day did not seem so great a sacrifice. Living to see another day was worth it.

Now, the years of unintentional neglect had taken its toll. Of course, none of it mattered to the man who did love her; Bertrand had always seen beauty with her. But it was not a comfort at that moment, not while her vanity was wounded.

_I should be happy. He's going to get what he's been after all along, and so will I. There won't be any interference for our night of the raid. Everyone should be happy._

Breaking from distraction, a piece of white caught the eye. The corner of an envelope stuck out from beneath a candleholder. And the sight of it, of her name across the front- not Danièle but Avril- almost undid her nerves. From the handwriting though, there was solace. Recognizably the slanting, jagged scrawl of. . .

_Come to the bridge. Tonight at nine o'clock. Be sure to be alone, no one following. It's safe as long as you obey._

_E._

Now, it occurred to her, sadly. The many nights and dark skies and stars and time that passed: they'd meant nothing before. Now, to face fact and reality, this would be the last night they'd have to themselves.

**Uh-oh! Well, what do you guys think of Christine now? She's going to go through with it. And Avril, is she stupid or is she stubborn you think? Yeah, now that Christine is going to say yes, all of a sudden she thinks Erik is making a mistake and suddenly worried about her appearance?**

**One more night. . . and then disaster beyond imagination! Oh sorry, wrong version:P**

**What do you think so far? Sorry, no Erik this chapter, but I'll make up for it next update to come;)**


	22. Chapter Twenty-One

**I blame the long delay of this chapter on writer's block. This was hard, maybe because it's getting more difficult for Avril. Everything in her life is catching up with her. Won't say anymore. Sorry if this chapter seems. . . well. . . I don't know.**

~Chapter Twenty-One~

Indicating the bridge, there was only one meaning. Not ten minutes away from the estate, a brick and wood bridge stood over a creek, or so it did once. Grass now encroached on its boundary and among the rocks once submerged by water. Her feet sunk a little with each step; the earth still damp and almost ready to drink the next rainfall. With another good rain or a small storm, the waters would come back again. It was convenient, however, and much safer this way. Despite the hour, there were one or two that could pass her by on the road. The nearest resident, less than half a mile southeast, was another tenant of the de Chagny land. Adding to her protection in the dark was the tall and dense growth of trees along her left, planted as a barrier for the tenant.

Although the handwriting had been recognizable, and regardless of the dark, the shadow, and hiding given in her advantage, Avril dared not set foot on the bridge without a proper look. There'd been other rendezvous and meetings of secrecy with accomplice and spies in the past. Always danger, always a chance and a gamble. None had ever made her nervous, not like now. It felt like sickness, the way her head and cheeks burned, but her insides quivered. The air inside her lungs almost ready to burst.

_I hope it's him. If somehow, it turns out to be Bertrand. . ._

A nauseating thought, indeed. There'd be no explanation, and if Avril ever found the words to tell him about this masked Mozart prowling the countryside with a lethal reputation, besides the courage to do it, it would only be by divine intervention.

"Avril. . . Avril. . ." It wasn't a man's voice, nor the figure of a man- standing on the bridge. A graceful silhouette of sloping shoulders and thick curl slouched over the side, so beautifully outlined by the moonlight. Of all persons, this jolted her.

"Melicent!" hissed Avril, dashing forward. "What on earth are you doing out here-"

"Well, I thought you were going to come to the bridge," she laughed. "What are you doing down there?"

"I was. . . are you alone?"

"No, of course not."

"Who brought you out here? You should be in bed. Did you. . ." Realization hit in mid-sentence, but instead of rage, she was seized by curiosity. He could've warned her what he intended, then again, maybe he'd done it on purpose. Maybe, it was meant to surprise her.

"Avril, dear, Erik's waiting in a brougham for us."

"W-What? Why?"

"Because I think he's a peculiar man," she admitted. Such candor, from her little sister, a laugh escaped Avril. Going round, she climbed the steeper slope up to the bridge. So Erik had come after all.

"Good heavens, you could not have scared me more. I thought. . . Never mind," Avril chuckled. "But you shouldn't be out here. You don't look warm enough-"

"Oh, I'm fine. Please, he said you would consent to this. Won't you?"

"Consent to what?"

"Just come on." The petulant child inside enveloped her eighteen year old body, snatching her older sister by the hand. A stone's throw away, on the opposite side of the crossing, there waited a lonely vehicle, a tired horse, and heavily-clothed driver fighting the cold. Melicent urged her in first before carelessly hopping up inside. This had been a good day for her. Avril had seen her through enough bad days, and to her regret, she'd missed a whole day of a happy, lively sister. Traveling on a rough, lonesome road with a rather obscure man, practically a stranger- as he was just as good as that- had not frightened her.

"Here she is, just like you said," proclaimed Melicent. "Close the door, Avril, so we can drive."

"You are one stupid girl, Melicent," said Avril, slamming the door closed. Erik sat ever composed and perfectly camouflaged in the blackness. Once again, the moonlight played upon his golden pupils. Gold, no, they only seemed gold. "Just what do you think you're doing, Erik? Dragging my sister all the way out here in her condition?"

"Oh Avril, don't be angry with him. I loved the idea!"

"Exertion is the last thing you need, and you know it."

"I may be an invalid, but I'm not decrepit, alright?" huffed Melicent, an over exaggerated heave of air. "The air will do me good, and you as well. It was rather kind of you inviting me to join you both, Erik."

"It's no great act of kindness, my dear," he murmured. The tone, one rather saddened. And just the inflection, unfortunately, that betrayed something ominous to her elder sister.

"Well, you have surprised me; I can't deny that," said Avril, clearing her throat. "But you did not tell me why to come here. Why are we here?"

The answer was not immediately, certainly not eager. "It's a lovely night for a drive," he said, nodding toward the window.

"Y-Yes."

"The moon is our sun, after all. There's no better time for it. . . For Avril and her dear sister to walk in the beauty of the night. . ."

Melicent giggled squeamishly, self-consciously.

"Is something wrong?" Gone were the warm emotions Avril had walked with, now chilled and colorless from the inside out. "Erik?"

"Nothing's wrong."

It wasn't believed for a minute. And the longer the driver, the farther up the road, the more antagonizing the suspicion. His eyes never ceased to move but they were out the window, refusing to look into either of their faces. The turning wheels induced a calm. Melicent leaned into her shoulder, quite heavily. There were no pains, no signs yet. She did not know yet.

Startling both the young women, a hand of Erik's abruptly rapped on the roof three times. The carriage pulled to an easy stop. The thick groves of linden and willow trees had faded into a grassy landscape. A gorgeous scene by day; by night, the beholder was entranced by the uninhabited terrain. No house to be seen in any direction. The hills were low and not steep. Gentle winds breathed between the verdant blades; an illusion like rippling water. Off in the distance, within the midst of the tall growth, an oblong lake came into view. Its surface containing all the color and light of the sky, with its moonbeams and stars as well.

None of it seemed unfamiliar to Erik as he tread a path through the grass, as natural and agile as the panther that cuts his way in dense jungle. Melicent walked in the middle, and Avril at the end. Since Melicent's skirts caught against anything, she was stooping down several times to undo the fabric from an offending twig or rock. Only thanks to the night's sun, she had any sight to make things out. Erik had given no reason for their stopping here, but did it need to be explained, with such a wonder before them. And it might be called a wonder. No human had yet encroached this piece of land, corrupting it with a house, farm, factory, nothing!

Perhaps the prospects kept them at bay. The closer to the lake, the soil began to turn soft underfoot. It wouldn't fair well for a house to stand on a foundation like mud. But the frogs were very fond of it. At one point, Erik turned warning them both as a footfall was encountered, full of murky lake. Just a sliver of it. When the grasses, thick and entangling receded, at last, he was able to extend an arm. Melicent took it gratefully. And how carefully he undertook her safety until the end.

Avril regarded it jealously a moment. Although adept in the dark, a gentleman's arm would have been appreciated. Patience was rewarded at a soft, smooth embankment. The ground a blended carpet of lichen and more mossy grass. A few oak trees formed a wide shadow with its canopy, nearly blocking out the moon. An owl was there to greet them overhead, or else protested being disturbed. If it she'd any way of knowing who owned it, Avril looked at it with such a delight to plunge her fortune on it. To call all of this her own; it would be as much home to her as heaven is to the angel.

And for one, it was not Paris. It was nothing like it; its beauty merely artificial, manmade, and cold. Glancing over, Melicent's faced glowed impressed as well. Shrugging out of Erik's arm, she mumbled something gracious and charmed before dashing forward to the edge of the lake. The girl knelt like one does kneeling before a deity, thoroughly absorbed in her reverence of the liquid mirror. Why not? After all, she'd never seen a crystal clear water a day in her life. They'd all drank from and bathed by means of the icy taps of a city.

"It's not so much to seek beauty in the world unknown as seeing beauty in your own world. . ."

"Oh," she stammered. Realizing he just spoke, Avril's mind shook from the vice of a trance. "I. . ."

"Yes, Erik thought much about what you said, Avril," he began. Awkward and disjointed, in his usual way. And she enjoyed the secrecy of the darkness to smile at the thought. "It's a shame you see it as that. But Erik, he does not agree, unfortunately. Where there is beauty, he must seek it; it'll never come to him."

"How did you ever come to find this place?"

"I used to come driving here, in the brougham, with Christine."

"By the night sun?" she asked. Devilishly amused and attempting to tease, she smiled. Instead of replying in like, she got nothing from him but a sulky nod. "I'm not surprised. . . It's the most perfect, isolated road to take, for two to bond without being disturbed."

". . ."

"Erik, there's something I probably should tell you-"

"Never mind that," he brushed off. "You've nothing to say to me."

"You're not upset?"

"Upset?"

"W-well, yes. . . I. . . didn't Daroga tell you?"

"What?"

"Never mind," she replied, quickly cutting off. That all too familiar chill running its path in the body. It seemed only he had that effect. And it was too late to be innocent now. Her sister was some ways off, distracted, not knowing the man held her tight by the wrists.

"What? You have something to tell Erik?" he demanded. Words, ground through his teeth, like a hissing sound. "What have you done?"

"Nothing!" she gasped. "It's nothing I've done. Will you please let go?"

"Why?" he baited her, smiling. The bottom lip was turned upward at one side.

"This hurts. Let me go!"

"Simply tell Erik what you've done, and he'll consider."

"Why should it offend you anyhow?" At first, she attempted, wrenching her hands away and thrusting backwards to release herself. But Avril could not have been more secured were her wrists inside manacles. "He said he would tell you. I trusted him to do just that. Apparently, he hasn't, so if anything, blame him! Erik, there's a warrant for his arrest. It's Bertrand. He wants your friend behind bars, something to do with past events at the Opera. But I don't think it has anything at all to do with that-"

"Is that so? You've lied before-"

"Do you not understand, Erik? If he is arrested, they may go after you."

"They?"

"Yes! Please, let me go." His grip didn't waver yet. "I am giving you a chance, aren't I? I warned your friend to hide-"

"This selflessness, it isn't like Avril, to feel anything for a stranger."

"Maybe not, no."

". . . Do you speak true?"

She would not have trusted herself, admittedly. But her head drooped a little, despair filling her shadowed eyes. The curl of the eyelashes shuttering closed any human feeling, any possible sign of weakness. "What does it matter if I am? Nothing I say you'll believe."

"Erik does not put much faith in words."

"If your friend is arrested, his worst punishment may be a year or two of prison, at the most. That's hardly anything. I was. . . well, if Bertrand catches you, you might not get away with your life. If you. . . No, you are a threat to his fortune. And being that, he won't stand for it. . ."

Finally, Avril felt the blood return to her fingers again. The wrists throbbed a little at the return of life-giving circulation. It was enough to frustrate one to their wit's end. And it wasn't as if she felt herself deserving of his trust. For she had been the very reason for all this, for the Persian's unfortunate involvement and the law that'll soon be bearing down on him. Estelle could've endured a little longer confinement in the city jail. If only Avril had known, asking that money and using it would ultimately cost, the request should've never crossed her mind.

If he'd trusted her, she'd not be rubbing her wrists, staring out at the lake, licking wounds to her pride. He would've thanked her instead, and been kind maybe, she'd have been in his arms. At the moment, it was all a poor soul could want. Just last night, he'd held her close; though awkward for both, he stayed and held her crippled mind and broken heart inside her sobbing frame. While she had no sanity, for a time, he was her sanity. Funny to think that possible of a madman.

"Erik did bring you here for a reason, Avril," he said. Returning to her side instilled some lost confidence; although now, that coldness from the carriage, his vague ways and pleasantries, haunted her once more. They were alone, the three of them. . . her sister.

"Erik?"

"This may be hard for you. If that is the case, you have Erik's support, if he can do anything to be of comfort-"

"Oh no, you don't mean-"

"The longer you wait-"

"Erik, no, not that," whispered Avril, her voice thickening with desperation. "Can't it wait until after-"

"No."

"But-"

"No." There was no hiding place from those burning eyes! They'd see and follow her even if he wasn't there. First Christine, then Raoul, now she herself would suffer them like a curse, seeing them everywhere. And they could see everything! "What would I say to her?"

"Say whatever is necessary."

"Necessary?"

"Yes, only what is necessary. Her situation is not going to improve; she deserves to know what will happen to her."

"What if it's better she doesn't know?" snapped Avril, facing him directly. While maybe her eyes did not glow in the same peculiar way, her whole face, her whole body blazed. "Why should I? If she's just going to go to sleep and not wake up, she'll never know it. Why ruin the happiness of her last month or so?"

"_It won't happen like that_."

". . ."

"And you know it, Avril. She's already in pain now. . . She would do the same for you, wouldn't she?"

". . . It should've been me. . ." muttered tearfully. "Not her-"

"What does that matter?" he retorted, harshly, cruelly. "And if you want her to see her strong and brave to the end, don't go about this blubbering and loathing your own pitiful excuses as a sister and human being. . . It must be done, and it can only be done by you."

With a defeated huff: "I suppose you could do better," she snapped. "Since when did you become so sane and clear-headed? I liked you better when you only cared about Christine, and no one else. . ."

For a second, as she turned her back, she nearly expected the lasso to catch on the neck. He was simply right. Instead of a head held high with her back turned on danger, she retreated into the dark overhang of the trees that concealed the ugly tearstain and bloodshot color in the white of the eye. Like every heartbroken soul, she hated him fiercely: for being right, for being honest, for his sympathy, and this sense of duty that had not exist until now. Nevertheless, it lend the courage. . . Melicent leaned out over the shallows. Small and childlike the moon had cut upon her tiny figure. Submerged fingers wiggled beneath the water, teasing a few curious tadpoles. All of it nearly renewed the agony.

"Wherever we go, Avril, I hope we can get someplace near the water," she said. "Well, if it's possible. You used to talk about living by the sea. I think it would be nice, or if not, we could settle in someplace in the country with peaceful lakes like this. I hear great things about the wine country, or even somewhere near the Rhine River to the east."

"You certainly know what you want," sighed Avril.

"Wouldn't it be lovely? Why, if this lake were a little bigger, we could all set a boat on it out here. You, me, and Estelle. And I'd love to learn to fish, or sketch."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"And you know what I would love most. . . ?"

"How should I know, Melicent?"

"Maybe I shouldn't say-"

"No, I'm sorry," Avril's head shook. "Just a little. . . What should you like best of all?" Her voice incidentally thickened, almost choked halfway in the throat.

"I wouldn't dare. You'd think it silly."

"Why would I?"  
"Because," with a chuckle, "you think that all children are parasites. You think babies are burdens, and. . . all the trouble they cause too. To carry them round in your belly for nine months, and the labor pains, coddling them constantly-"

"Oh, Melli-"

"And who's to say I'd make a good mother?" blushed she. "For I was too young to remember Estelle as a baby, helping raise her, like you helped Mother raise me and Estelle. But I also figure, what's there to know about taking care of them. All they want is love."

"Yes," she agreed. "You are very silly. You know before you love a baby, you have to love a man first. And just what man is there on this earth good enough to be blessed with your overflowing heart?" _There I go again! No more, no more! _thoughts inside screamed, cursing her. _Make her stop! This whole fantasy is going to go up in smoke anyway. Why! Why!_

"I thought I might make new friends where we go," suggested Melicent, one shoulder hopped in a shrug. "Maybe meet a husband there. . . somehow."

"Melli. . ." Bravely and slowly, Avril sunk to her knees. The grass dampened them and her calves as she settled herself down. Her supporting hand sunk slightly into the muddy embankment. Waiting until her sister's face turned back to her, she kept back her speech until then. "You know. . . You know that I would do anything for you, Melli. You are. . . a good. . . person. I mean, you are good, but you've been so kind and patient with everything that's happened over the years. It's been hard on you, as it has all of us. I know you took it hard when Father passed away, and when Mother left us too. You borne it all so bravely. I am proud of you. And. . . And I may not have always said it as often as I should, but I think the world of. . . I. . . I love you-"

"Avril, Avril," she begged her to stop. One of the poor girl's cold hands leapt to her sister's shoulder. "W-What is the meaning of this? You never talk like this-"

"I know, I'm sorry," she gasped, quickly losing breath. "But it's something I should apologize for; not to say that's. . . I'm sorry I haven't been as patient and kind with you when-"

"You've been the best sister always-"

"You don't know, you couldn't know," mumbled Avril. "And I dare not tell you why. I'm not like you, and there are so many things I've come to regret."

"Avril, one thing I've always been grateful of is having you as a sister." To her greatest misfortune, the poor girl could not have been more earnest, more ardent. "And you've never disappointed me, me or Estelle, when we needed you most. She may complain sometimes, but truly, we've nothing to complain about. I mean it, Avril. Of all people, you're the only one I've ever really trusted. You've always done well by us. . . Don't regret that."

"T-thank you, Melicent," sighed her sister. The lungs heaving a little raggedly. "That is more kind and just than deserved, but thank you."

"But I hope, Avril," she smiled still, "that you won't do anything else to bring any worse regret. You know. . ."

Unable to help her fear, her eyes snapped up at that sickly face so near. "You know what?"

"You know. . ." Nothing more. At least, whatever it was, she did not speak it. Avril never knew her to be an ambiguous character. What she seemed to be alluding to. . . or what Avril at least suspected she allude to was in the way her gaunt hand lay over her own. Beneath the black kid gloves, a chilly current raced through the fingers. There were so many lies in them, condemning her day after day. Maybe her hands were cold, but they'd always been cold, used to every kind of weather. It did not affect her at all. Melicent knew that. Trying not to appear stricken by guilt or otherwise confirm the truth, Avril's hands cautiously, slowly squirmed from her sisterly grasp.

A twinkle flickered in Melicent's eyes, as rare a thing as a shooting star. "I hope you won't ever regret your secret, if you think you must keep it."

"Oh, you talk. . ."

Sadly, while a half denied it, the other half of her agreed, even wished she could be honest. It wasn't about her at all, or anything to do with her criminal history either. No. Melicent knew nothing of that. _Does she think I love him?_

Melicent would never know the answer, and her elder sister was not to be given the chance. Words died from her lips as movement appeared in the grass several yards away, jagged, abrupt rustling. Even the crickets went silent. Standing quickly on her feet, and standing before the weakling, Avril was met with her expectations. A group of men, numbering four or six, all of them burly, hairy, unkempt, or all three, meandered into the clearing. The stench was upon them, and by their slow gait, a cheap scotch was taking its effect.

"All lone, little ladies?" said one. Everyone of them, catching sight of them, was now keenly interested in them.

They did not know her. If they had, they'd not have approached this close with that leer in their face. Avril lowered a hand to her belt, almost hovering round the buckle. "You must be lost, but this is not the way," she warned. Melicent's hands were on each arm, still behind her. "Now, if you've any sense, gentlemen, you leave us this instant," she hissed.

"How we know you're not loss too?" slurred another. A semi-circle was forming. Avril brushed a hand back, signaling Melicent to retreat.

"I warn you," she repeated, "be on your way. I don't run."

"Oh, don't you?"

"Wai. . . Wait a minute! I know 'er," replied one. "Yes. Yes! You're that- that gendarme's little pet, aren't you? The thiev'n' one! She's in and out of every tavern and gamble 'ouse in the city."

"Real-a?"

"And in and out of some of the richest 'ouses too!" he declared. "Always in it for the jewels. Avril Chasseur. . ." Hair on her neck stood up at this recognition. Her fingers began preparing, undoing the buckle.

"I bet she's got some pretty jewels somewhere, even. . . she probably carries 'em on her. Or, from wha' I hear!"

There was cackle and mischief in their air, which didn't last long. Each one staggered until they'd nearly surrounded. Suddenly, a loud crack and one cried out. He clutched at his face, smarting in the cheek. Avril's belt had been flung from the loops. Now, in hand was some invisible stripe, fast as lightning bolt with a leathery sting. It licked the first across the face, parallel with the right eye, nose, and down the lip. The next one got it across the thigh. When a third attempt make a grab at it, it came down and ruthlessly gashed the hand between thumb and first finger. Another man more successful caught her from behind; the whip was flung so that it curled round her and struck cross the rear. It freed her enough to throw up an elbow and connect with the right side of the jawbone.

The majority of them were all curses and raving mad. One or two separated, venturing off after Melicent. Avril managed to stop one of them by taking both ends of the whip in hand, snagging one, and hurling him towards the ground. In doing so, a hard fist against the back of the head delivered unconsciousness. But it was her only victory. Three of them braved her blows, seizing her arms and waist. One thrust into the grass knocked the air from her, nearly bouncing her body on impact. And the recovery was not immediate.

In a desperate attempt, she moved to roll back on her stomach. But once face down, a heavy boot planted its heel down on the mid-back. Pressing on the spine, the force not only kept her pinned but her lungs as well. Still struggling, another man got hold of her round the ankles. The only air her compressed body could take was a foul medley of alcohol and man. One foot rendered a painful kick to her hand weakly bearing the whip. Now, it was useless. They were bent upon their task, eager to remove boots and garments. One boot of hers was taken off and shaken down for any hidden loot.

Then, just as instantly it all began, the attack turned to a frantic withdraw. Somebody above her howled from pain, while the others blubbered and hollered to one another. Five ran, regardless of the victimized sixth. He was unexpectedly snared, struggling a few feet from where Avril lay. Nothing was to be seen except shadows in the tall growth. He fought, or at least fought to get away, for about five seconds. Five seconds, and the silence and peace of minutes before was restored.

_Did he? There's no noise. Did he run? What if he did? _Avril lay still. The silence seemed unsure. Was it safe to move? Who was victorious? But it was no doubt worth entertaining. Erik's silhouette lithely cut through the grass, completely invisible if not for the moonlight. And that faint light was just enough to light his amber eyes. Despite all that had transpired in that short moment, there was no fiery blaze about them. No distress. No anger. It was a candle-like flame, serene and void.

"Are you hurt?"

Still without much breath, Avril had no voice for an answer. And even so, there was this shake in her that wouldn't stop. Few aches and pains were left behind. Nothing too serious, yet, her head drooped back against the soil. Agony surged up from her left arm, from her wrist. A couple fingers had stiffened and wouldn't move. The tumble to the ground had inflicted her foot with a possible sprain. And suddenly aware of it, Avril may no attempt to rise.

"Give me your hand," he commanded. Erik knelt beside her, and immediately diagnosed her. Reaching to take her injured limb, Avril withdrew it cowardly. "Avril-"

"No, no-"

"Don't argue with Erik. It's here and now. Give me Erik your hand," he demanded.

"D-do you kno-w h-how?" stammered Avril. The whole hand, now at his mercy. The glove came off her right; her wrist, practically held with a death grip, she couldn't jerk away.

"Yes. Erik knows how," he reassured, "and there's no other way. Now, don't scream."

Without warning, no countdown, and no compassion, he tugged. It all popped. And giving no heed to his last words, her scream was shrill. No stopping it. And unable to control it, he didn't try once it was released. After the agonizing surprise, Avril's hand trembled; the scream quickly diminished to moaning.

For all the pain that he could've caused, this one was the worst. Reflecting on that unfortunate, ignorant tormenter, Avril did not think of him. And Erik did not inspire any terror. If he had, it would have been the fight of her life, for her life. Instead, he bent closer until he had her round her sore back and under the knees, without any resistance. Through the grass, back in the direction of the lone oak, Avril felt her hair and feet brush the wisps of vegetation. Irritated, her face burrowed into the shoulder fold of the cape.

* * *

Eventually, after ten minutes since the ambush, the carriage moved again. On down the road at a most leisurely pace, the driver was not stirred by any sense of emergency. Five of the six original group had fled the opposite direction, disappearing into a black horizon. Inside, the three passengers were settled, and for the most part, unharmed. Before it passed, the curtains over the windows were drawn, preventing any observer from curiosity.

And they passed him unknown. Nobody saw the tall figure slumped against the trunk of a tree along the roadside. A flame came to life with a struck match, and a small cloud of smoke floated in the now windless air.

**Was it a set-up? What happened to that man back in the meadow? . . . How long am I going to string this out until somebody gives? That's probably what you're asking. Does Melicent know Avril's little secret? Does Avril know it? At least, I'll say this, I think she's starting to find out.**

**Maybe, if this chapter didn't live up to your expectation (those who were hoping for an Erik/Avril moment), I'll say, there is a little surprise in store next update;)**


	23. Chapter Twenty-Two

~Chapter Twenty-Two~

In the large metal washbowl, her foot soaked and chilled her whole body. And she had no help with the frayed wool shawl that hung by the door as they came in. Melicent fluttered anxiously, arranging cushions to bring her comfort; bandages were brought out for the minor scrapes and cuts. A situation of irony, to be tended and fussed over by her sickly sister. Maybe at another time, she'd have been annoyed, plagued to no end. Avril paid no attention. When her sister brought more ice, ready to dump the bucket into the bowl, a little forbearance was exerted.

"Are you sure-"

"There is nothing else you can do, Melicent. I'll be perfectly fine," winced her elder sister. The fresh cubes intense enough to hurt. "P-Please, Erik, will you let go of my hand? I'm losing my core."

"Your fingers will be too swollen for any task tomorrow without the ice," he said bluntly. As firm as he had been to reset the bones, his grip on her wrist couldn't have been tighter without inflicting pain. But this time, she didn't resist it. A handful of ice, wrapped in a rag, he held against the inside of her hand. A thing of diligence he volunteered himself to as soon as they were through the door.

"Are you sure those awful men did nothing worse?" asked Melicent. "Your lip looks terrible."

"Thank you, Melli," grumbled Avril, more sarcastically than offended. "That is so touching."

"I'm just grateful you were able to fend them off."

"Oh no, I didn't. Be grateful to Erik, the man with the bright idea to take us out there."

"Avril, it's not his fault," she pouted. "He thought we'd enjoy-"

"Usually, it's not a road much traveled, at least by people on foot," he remarked.

"It was so sweet of you to think of us, girls of no importance."

"Erik has told you before," he assured, a little ragged of patience. "It was no trouble, and it was no service. It was merely a favor."

"Of course. Thank you."

"But now that your sister is taken care of, perhaps you should be off to bed now."

For some reason, none that Avril could guess, there rose this urgent, insane feeling that made swallowing difficult. And her lungs ached, with a dull pain. It wasn't until Melicent was finally convinced to retire, making a tired trek up the stairs. Every moment, each step of the way, for as long as she could see, Erik followed her eyes, in just the same way she followed her sister. Once caught, the face turned away flushed.

"She's a brave soul, isn't she?" he said. To which, Avril agreed, nodding. "Maybe too fragile, but certainly brave."

"She always has been."

"It was all with best intentions, you know."

"I know. . ."

"But it'll help her for what lies ahead. She'll need every ounce of that strength."

"Yes. S-She will. . ."

". . . How did she take it?"

"Oh, she is very. . . Well, she took it rather well. . . She will. . ."

Glancing to her right, his gold eyes showed no faith. "You didn't tell her."

"No," sighed Avril. "Call me a coward. No, I didn't tell her. . . I almost did. . ."

The uninjured hand, still bearing its glove, folded over both eyes. Only afraid lest Melicent should hear, she refused to be heard. No sobbing. War with one's own heart is never a fair battle. Avril did not suffer these struggles as before; now, tears were just beneath the surface and all too easily shed. It didn't take anything anymore to bring her to crying. However often it occurred though, it only disgusted her more. It never did nothing to help, her or anybody, of course.

"I'm sorry, I won't. . . I won't do this again. I'm alright." Most of whatever she tried to say sounded muffled, especially by Erik's handkerchief. For the second time, it came out to her rescue. Of course, last time, it was merely handed to her. Erik applied it to her cheeks, swiping the surface with earnest care, the gentlest of touch. It cupped round under her nose, dabbing the corners of the eyes. How the hand lingered, soft, careful, and soft. . . took its time with every inch of her stained face. Using the thumb, he also removed any blood crusted around her lower lip; a gesture that provoked an involuntary shiver.

"Coward," he mumbled. Perfectly timed, just the perfect tone, smirking back: it was the recipe of her laughter.

"Yes," she sighed, still chuckling. "Yes, I am. . . Thank you."

"Honestly, Avril, you're not that," he answered. "Erik has known you long enough, that you are anything but weak of heart. While you thought you were alone, fighting your attackers, Erik saw everything."

"Did you?" A reaction of surprise. "You watched-"

"Erik prepared to step up as soon as they were hemming you in, but after that, you didn't seem to need help."

"Not much," she shrugged. Such a performance did not spark any pride, or deserve much praise in her eyes.

"If there hadn't been so many, you'd have taken care of them yourself."

"Normally, I don't end up on the ground. Bertrand taught me. He's taught me everything he knows about combat, handling a pistol, among other things you know I do. That's why, when I walk through the city after dark, men know better and keep their distance. . . You have to be close to throw a fist, and if they're intoxicated, it's not always easy for a little girl to defend herself. And drunk or sober, a whip will always hurt."

"Clever."

"Although, it's not exactly as. . . well, to the effect, as the Punjab lasso can be."

Watching his body stiffen, it was already clear. Erik, unlike many who'd claimed otherwise, did indeed possess a conscience. Why even the Persian had implied the opposite. And the fact alone already satisfied her.

"Suppose you find that rather disturbing," he replied darkly. His eyes broke from hers momentarily, with the power to break heart. "Not that Erik would blame you. It was wrong of him. . . and. . ."

"I'm grateful, though. It wasn't just me you protected, but Melicent too."

"Erik made a promise years ago. . . after. . . After terrible events in the past, practically another life. . . Erik promised his old friend there'd be no more heinous crimes against the human race. . . Well, he has not faired so well by that promise as he would've liked."

"Erik has not faired well?" nodded Avril. "No, maybe not."

"The man panicked, trying to get away. Erik only used his rope to scare him, and he. . . jerked an odd way-"

"What have you to explain to me, Erik? Do I look like I've condemned you? What happened tonight was no crime; it takes one to know one," she simpered.

"You seemed rather shaken afterward," he pointed out. "For certain, it was the man-"

"Who am I to judge it? Even you have to agree with that."

No, he didn't agree. Nothing in him seemed settled, for as far as Avril could see. By the look of those slanting eyes, even the straight line of mouth, he was settled with what she was and probably never to expect change. . . _Like Bertrand. He loves me for - in spite of everything. . . No, he's not like Bertrand. _Such was the length of their pause, their inability to find anything to say, Avril nearly trembled under his gaze. The images returned, those of him seated before the majestic organ, his voice which brought heaven to the earth, and. . . all the while, looking back at her. . . smiling. . .

"Erik should wrap your hand," he spoke up, "before he goes."

At first, disappointing. But all too willing to oblige, the hand and wrist were presented. By the second, he was more and more beautiful. As tender as he'd been with her tears, he treated Avril's thin-fleshed arm and every bone as precious as a bird's egg. Round and round, slowly, the bandage coiled downward. Never once did he think to look up. Inches away, a pair of eyes glutted upon the sight of mask, without the least shame too. Cheeks were flushed rosily, and from nothing at all to do with crying.

"Thank you," she mumbled. And then, too embarrassed for words, closed her eyes.

"As long as you wear gloves for tomorrow night, no one should notice your injury."

"True. . . Tonight actually," she recalled.

"Yes," he nodded.

"Well, hope you're ready. It'll be an evening of grand things."

"Are _you _ready?" A question which he more asked with his eyes.

"Ready as I'll ever be," Avril answered humbly. "Of course, I'm more worried about what happens before the main event, t-the raid anyway."

"Understandably."

"And it's been awhile since I've danced. Last time I was in a ballroom was a year and a half ago. I've killed plenty toes in my time. And haven't had a lot of. . . a. . . lot of practice since." The swallow down her throat, dry and full of air, was painful. There'd been no thought given the word choice until too late. It played the spark to another memory when Avril had dared flirt with his temper, his patience. At that moment, it had been no more than mere thrill. Against mind and will, that innocent encounter instantly haunted her.

"You never struck Erik as someone incapable," he mused. "You are one who meets their challenge. What is there to fear?"

"So many things really," she replied, vaguely.

"As you have done well to uphold your end of our agreement, Avril, Erik does not intend to interfere in your night's pillaging. That is, if it is still your heart's desire."

". . ."

"Where shall you be heading after it's done?"

"That I couldn't tell you." Flicking an eye, with it, a half-joking, distrustful glance. "How do I know you would not give us away?"

"If Erik ever wanted to find you, he would find you, even at the end of the earth."

"Should I be afraid or flattered?"

Having completed the bandage, his gaunt fingers was finishing with the ends, forming a neat, small bow inside her palm. That fantasy was something intriguing, almost even, thrilling. To be chased, stalked, captured. . . He did not answer. Although perhaps, he intended it, knowing how it tormented her. Yet, he looked back, gazed back. What Avril would've given - the biggest, most valuable diamonds on earth, to be privy to his mind. The eyes studied her features, just as she had his, thoroughly fascinated. A shudder ran down her spine when his eyes were directly in line with hers. And slowly, they moved about, upward and to the side. . . Her hair. Once realizing it, she let her neck roll slowly to the side, just enough to bring her mane falling over the shoulder.

It wasn't give much care. Most of the time, it simply got in the way, encumbering at times. There was natural wave in it, but nothing striking. She could've wished that moment it had at least been brushed. Yet, it didn't seem to matter. His eyes followed, trailing down to the end of it. The hair stopped about middle of her back, unbraided and undone. No decoration or fashion. Then, slowly traveling back up, she found his eyes stop again at her face, but low, around her chin. . . Her lips.

_It's been days since my cruel remark. Has he tried? Has he kissed her? _Although wretched, it crossed her mind. Whether he looked in her eyes, pretending to see his angel in her form, how would she ever know? He gave her no reason for courage, yet Avril leaned, so that her left shoulder was slowly reclining into his right. While her head continued into a further lean, it seemed. . . his was lowering. . . to meet her. At the same time, each one mutually hovered close; so close, breath mingled. For certain, now, he'd clearly not attempted it before. Avril almost felt compelled with a smile, and to laugh at herself, for suffering shyness! As his eyes began to fall half-closed, hers went shut completely. It helped cure hesitation.

Just as his lips finally arrived at hers, an intruder had raised a fist to the front door.

"Avril! Avril!" he yelled. "Let me in!"

It startled the both of them away, and Avril's head tilt toward the ceiling, eyes clenched closed. "Daroga," Erik growled, hinted with a groan.

"What do you want!" Avril stood from the divan, unwilling to make any move for the door.

"You going to open the door, or do I have to break it down!" It did not at all sound like him, more like an enraged friend of his. But afraid of him making a spectacle, Avril abandoned the confines of fantasy. The door was unlocked and thrown open with a storm-like force. The man awaited no invitation. "What have I done so terrible in my life to deserve this? And don't even act annoyed-"

"Annoyed?" repeated Avril. It was too dangerous to stand there in the same room with him, and hastily shut the door behind. "I should like to know why you've not taken my advice?"

"Erik, what are you doing here?" said the Persian, noticing his friend inside. "Where've you been all day?"

"None of your concern, Daroga," he snarled.

"Why are you here?" Avril again demanded. "I told you to hide and lay low. Didn't you understand anything I said this morning."

"With all due respect, mademoiselle, I've many years more experience than you outrunning authorities, more unstable and crooked than the gendarmes here in the city. This is about all I can endure. You tell him the truth!"

"What are you talking about?"

"You tell your vindictive scoundrel sweetheart the truth. I wanted no part in your lives, and I want nothing more to do with it," he raved. "For you sake and your sisters, I did what I could; now, I won't have it anymore. You tell him the truth, or I shall!"

"Daroga-"

"They'll probably be at the door in two minutes."

"What!"

"Foolish man! It'll be the Devil's Island if they catch you!" seethed Erik.

"For all of us, unless you tell him the truth." His sights had not been turned from Avril, her entire face colored by her feelings, the bitterest.

"I won't," she refused.

"You say you wanted to help me; it's the only way you'll exonerate me."

"You don't want to be caught, Daroga. If you tell him the truth, he has good reason to take you the river!"

"How many souls must be sacrificed for the sake of your cause!"

All the noise, entrances and heated conversations alike, had roused the two younger sisters. Estelle had been longer in bed, and asleep for longer than Melicent, bringing a rather irritated face toward the company.

"What's the matter with you, people?" groaned she. "Is somebody dying?"

"Give it a few minutes, we'll see," replied Erik, half-sarcastic. "You do realize, running and moving from place to place, that the gendarmes will be following you."

"At first, I tried. But ever since Avril came through my window this morning, Paris is an angry beehive. Every police officer is on duty and hunting for me: in every hotel, every tavern, every shop, horse stable. They've got guards posted outside the Rue Scribe gates. I tried to go there and settle in your house on the lake. There's no way anybody will get in without being seen!"

"What's going on?" said Melicent, eyes suddenly wide. "What do the police what with you?"

"For no good reason," he answered.

Avril's scowl borne up into his soot-layered, haggard face. "For years of experience evading kings and courts, you've no pride if you turn to me for help."

As predicted, and at no worse a time, another loud rapping came from the door. The first rattled the door. Estelle and Melicent jumped.

"Police! Open the door!" they announced. The rapping ceased for a few seconds.

"Avril, they can go out the back door," suggested Melicent.

"The back door?" echoed the Persian.

"Out of the question," declared Erik. "They want in, they'll surround the house."

"There's no other way out," said Estelle. "Are you two wanted for something?"

"No time for that, Estelle," snapped Avril. The door rattled again, thunderously. "You two, take the gentlemen upstairs. I'll send them off-"

"That wouldn't be wise," Erik began.

"What are you afraid of?" insisted the Persian, teeth gritting. "Why can't you bring yourself to it, sever all ties with him."

"Keep your voice down," hissed Avril. For the second time, a man outside announced their presence and demanded someone answer the door. "Go Melicent, Estelle. Do as I say. _You_, I'm doing this as a favor. And so help me, if you breathe a word to Bertrand-"

"I warned you-"

"Please!" Avril's voice rasped. "You'll help us, if you help yourself."

At a stalemate, a few sentences spewed from his lips, all incoherent, veiled by his mother tongue. Nonetheless, he conceded; both men sought safety up the stairs, their last haven soon to be penetrated as well. Erik did not look behind, leaving her without clue if he were blaming her. _Why should you blame me? This is all ultimately due to you and your history at the Opera, and your friend, covering and playing a front for you. You better not call this my fault!_

"What are you two still doing down here?" she fired at both. "Go on! Upstairs!"

Aside from the two doors, and maybe a couple of windows, there was no other way out. Like the curtains hanging from a stage, Avril had all the shutters closed on the lower windows, as the scene of disaster was about to commence. Not to appear guilty, to each, the only three in the parlor, she pulled back the wood panels. Moonlight streamed in. The one candle burned, and the bowl of cold, soaking water was still on the floor at the divan. Nothing could be done about them, except explain.

_Of course, if they can't prove anything, they can't arrest me._

"Evening, mademoiselle," greeted one, who tipped his hat cordially.

"Can I help you, gentlemen?" she replied forcefully.

"I'm the constable, mademoiselle. Inspector Faure. We've had it from some witnesses nearby there's been a fugitive lurking in proximity of this house. May we come in?"

"You may, but only if you are quiet," she agreed. Stepping aside, Avril extended a carefree invitation with a stretched arm. "My sister is ill, sleeping upstairs. So please make this quick."

None were polite or made any effort to be. Their eyes, darting from wall to wall, lips twitching, and voices low in mutters filled the parlor. Porcupines: peaceful but ready to bear their quills. Their leader, the constable, did not enter, or by looks, see her in any favorable light. No good was ever bred from these slum neighborhoods of the city. Observing also the unfeminine choice in attire lend her no advantage. With a sneer, concluding his silent summation of the downstairs level, he faced her. Off to the sidelines, poking in and around the kitchen, the stony, innocuous face of Bertrand. His eyes roamed everywhere but the vicinity of her.

"We're looking for a man, a foreigner," said the constable, "a man named Nadir Khan. Do you know of a man like that in this arrondissement?"

"I don't believe so, monsieur."

"Have you seen him anywhere, in your local shops or streets?"

"I have not."

"You're sure?"

"I know everybody who lives here, my neighbors, their landlords, the shopkeepers, everyone. Why do you suppose he is here?"

"We saw a man of that description approach this house minutes ago," informed one of the lesser officers, circling behind her. So starched and perfectly pressed, his uniform gave off a repugnant stench; it had merely been pressed, not washed. Cotton, leather, and sweat. "Have you had any visitors tonight?"

"At this hour?" retorted Avril.

"How do you explain the candle then, mademoiselle?" asked the constable.

"I've been tending my foot, M. Faure. I sprained my ankle yesterday."

"Doesn't seem to be very swollen, and you appear to walk on it just fine."

Glares shot in every direction, except Bertrand. At the corner of her eye, she watched him lean against the wall, where he could fake his disinterest looking up at a hole in the ceiling made by termites. The lip curled sideways.

"If I assume rightly, and you're here thinking I am dishonorable, and harboring criminals in my house, by all means, search the place."

"Thank you for your cooperation. Men, as you were, check all the doors, the windows, all the rooms upstairs."

"But my sister-"

"Inspect the rooms, quietly. Somebody go look in the kitchen: cupboards, pantry, everywhere."

_Oh Erik, get out! Be smart! There's nowhere to hide here; get out!_

"How long have you lived here?" he questioned further.

"Twenty-two years. I rent here, but this has been mine for six years."

"Where are your mother and father?"

"Deceased."

"And what do you do for a living?"

"I'm a maidservant for a family here in the city."

"That's not easy to believe, quite frankly," he confessed. "Many people around here say many things about you, none of them good."

Hearing the heavy boots of four officers tramping up the steps, making each creak and moan, Avril held her breath. Not only were they starched and well-groomed, but shining too, from the buckles and medals to the very leather of their boots.

"What good is there to say about anybody here, M. Faure? Tell me, who is this man, and why is he such a danger?"

"That information is confidential."

"It's none of my business with you and your men in _my _house? And do your men have no courtesy, not even to wipe their feet before coming in? That one over there has tracked in mud."

Bertrand's footwear was the only one of them, caked up and crumbling from mud. All the others walked around only with wet soles. And never before was he assigned patrol outside of Paris proper. Avril smiled across the way, ever so slightly tipping a nod, both eyebrows low and arched.

"Of course, beg your pardon," the constable mumbled, clearing throat. "Lieutenant, wipe your boots outside, will you?"

"I beg your pardon, mademoiselle," he heartily accepted.

_Do you love me that much, so much you'd bring this upon me? _Slow and carefully, he stomped and scraped his heels outside until they met with her approbation.

"Constable!" One of the men yelled from upstairs.

"What is it? You find him?"

**Will the men get away? What will she do with Bertrand now? But at least, I hope I delivered my promise, my surprise. Please, review, I'm dying for an opinion. Was it too short or too sweet? And the dear Daroga, poor man, you can't stay mad at him for long. You think if he knew, would he approve? What ****will they find, or who will they find upstairs?**

**Next chapter, we'll be coming to the ball, at last! I'm looking forward to it! Hope you all are; ) Take this as your invitation.**


	24. Chapter Twenty-Three

**I worked hard. Finally, I give you a longer chapter! And hope the spectacle will astound you! Sorry, that's the Webber version, not Leroux. By the way, to Emlia Tain, I was amazed that you would read this! And you reviewed in a different language, XD! That was so cool. I used Google Translate and laughed and was cheered by it. Thank you. Everybody thank you!**

~Chapter Twenty-Three~

Nadir had nearly lost his footing stretching from the ledge of a girl's bedroom window to the rain gutter of the house next door. His friend's lasso took on another use, unexpectedly, to the preservation of life than the bringing of death. It didn't take ten seconds. In that time, they'd successfully crossed over to the roof, down the fire escape, and both the younger Chasseur sisters were coyly slipped back into their shared bed before the gendarmes had made their thorough investigation.

The voice from one of the men inside called out to the constable from upstairs. A prolonged pause ensued this. All their voices fell low into incoherency. From the safety of the empty dwelling, little could reach their ears. They were no so audacious as to intrude into the girls' bedroom, prying around after their fugitive. More light and movement stirred below, in the windows of the kitchen and on into the parlor.

"I wouldn't be surprised if in the end, she ends up getting one or both of us killed. Or anybody. And her fellow's down there, of course, pretending to know nothing, just business. And she doesn't care. She's never cared about what happens to us, so long as we're quiet. At least, she has a little sympathy, compared with him. He doesn't want me incarcerated; he wants me dead. And likely, wants the same for you too."

"It's all survival," said Erik. Unlike the Persian, he was at a wise distance from the window. "It's all about their survival."

"Boldvieu thinks he's untouchable," he resumed. "But wherever she's been, he's been. Wherever they've gone in Europe, there's always a man in her company of _his likeness_. But he seems to understand, there's no evidence out there to prove anything against him. Against any one of them."

"The way you talk now, Daroga, you're determined to do something about them."

"He expects to find me on the run," nodded the Persian. A smile grew in his face, with a sleep-deprived glimmer about his black eyes. "He hopes to send me out of hiding and catch me that way. No, he won't find me; I'll find him. . . After all, the Comte de Chagny did invite me to his ball."

It shouldn't have been any surprise, but hearing this, coming from his friend, Erik was indeed amazed. "Ah, you're going because, showing yourself there, you know that Boldvieu can do nothing to you in the Comte's house."

"Not only that," a finger was held up, "but he'll have all the gendarme forces here in Paris out searching for me, _here in the city_. If he wants to be there tonight, he'll have to put up with my presence. And whatever he and his accomplices do, it won't go without my knowledge."

"You mean to tell the Comte?"

". . . Erik? You should be glad I would do so. The man might get some other idea in his mind, and do harm to Christine. . . I assume you would be grateful for this."

"It's no business of yours to interfere," he stated. His body straightened from his leaning posture against the wall. "Perhaps it would only be worse if you were to try."

"Do you not understand?" he puzzled. "Erik, these people have been known, incidentally and intentionally, to incite riots and uprising. Down in Italy, Bertrand, Avril, all of them had a hand in some illegal smuggling ring; it started up a whole scandal in courts, ending up in the assassination of a local official in Venice. Nobody ever held them accountable for it."

It gave him plenty of reason for pause, but not what Nadir had been expecting. Conflict danced in his eyes, all the while that Erik was rendered silent, absorbed for thought.

"So you see?"

"I do, Daroga," he nodded. "Erik knows your anxiety, but what you say is actually nothing that Erik has been ignorant of all this time. Does it shock you that Erik does not find that particularly bad. . . well, bad yes, but. . . Well, compared with what _I_ have done, that their crimes are not an evil of the same degree?"

"So, let me see if I've got this clear! You're condoning what they're doing-"

"They, Daroga! What _he _is doing, it's condemnable!"

"Oh, so. . . So, this is all his crime? The guilt is all his?" The man blinked. "And Avril is perfectly clean of this business? Erik, she is no different than the rest of her companions. It's pitiable how she fell into their lot, through most unfortunate circumstances, but it's not defendable."

"If you can pity a man known as the Angel of Death, how is it impossible to pity a lesser criminal, at that, a woman?" challenged Erik.

"Do you pity her?"

". . ."

"I know what you're doing, Erik."

"Do you?" he swallowed.

"It's obvious! You're covering for her, overlooking her history because she's paved the way for you back to Christine!"

Thankful to hear only that, a sigh passed. "That is a fact."

"That's everything!"

"_You don't know her, Daroga_!" he bellowed. "How quickly you forget what she's been trying to do to keep you safe-"

"Bringing the city's police force down on my head?"

"It's not as though you unwarned!"

"What have I to be grateful for?" spouted the Persian. "I. . ." Then stopping, catching himself: "Perhaps we ought to be keep our voices down." Too late for caution, Erik's eyes rolled.

"If you haven't compassion, my friend, you might at least have a little patience. As you have been invited, you may or may not have to interfere. Why not just watch, wait. . . See how events come to pass tonight."

"Erik?"

"Something tells me that this raid he's planning at de Chagny's ball will come to nothing."

"No. . . Really? Is she. . . reconsidering?"

"She says not," shrugged Erik. "But earlier this week, it was her dream and freedom and a new life. Now with her sister terminally ill, all those jewels in the collection will do nothing to bring her sister any cure. There's nothing worthwhile in it for her. She told Erik herself."

"You think she'll put a stop to it?"

"Anything is possible."

"Have you been trying to talk her out of it?"

"Avril will do what she pleases to do, regardless what anyone should think of her actions. To try and argue, 'talk her out' as you say, it would not only be useless; it would strengthen her resolve to follow through."

"Would it?"

". . ."

"Erik, I wouldn't be surprised if you underestimate what you really think yourself capable of, with her." Uncomfortable, feeling trapped in a bare room, closed in by the close walls and low ceiling, he started to pace. Compulsively, he tugged at his shirt collar, barely hearing his friend. That girl might. . . really value your opinion," said Nadir.

"Why should she?" Erik's head shook.

"You've experience. You've done more, seen more of the world, made your choices in life, and regret some-"

"This has nothing to do with reform. Erik has his purpose, as well as Avril. All this interaction is pure necessity. After tonight, the Phantom and the Silhouette will each go their ways, with their treasure. . ."

"The Silhouette?" he pondered.

". . ."

"Erik. . . I-" That last thought was cut off quick with a warning wave of Erik's hand. Subtle movement came from downstairs: a soft grating against wood, tenacious footsteps, and the few creaks of wood as a result of them. "What was that?" whispered Nadir.

"It was a window," murmured Erik. While one backed against the wall, away from the wide open door, the other stood ground. A hand settled round his belt inside his cloak. They were boots, Erik judged -as he always did- accurately. Sly but not silent, although he tried. Bertrand was foremost in both minds. With both, mutually, a man regarded with deserved aversion.

There had been no objection on his side, as regards the rogue policeman and the young woman. None of it caused Erik harm. Nothing in their plans contradict his pursuit; so long as Avril stood on his side, Christine was still a dream possible. And what a dream! Coming back from the brink of death and reunited with her, like a withered tree given water she was to him. Had it not been for Avril, the thought recurred again and again. Had it never been, had she never jumped that fence, injured herself, hide in his friend's own house. . . it would all have ended.

Strangely as it seemed, he had stumbled on a different sort of treasure. Even rare.

Another man called this person his own, with a right to do so. He'd begotten a child by his mercy and kindness, caring for her, but only to shape her for a partner of a life in the underworld: a modern-day mortal, his very own version of Persephone. Such a man as Bertrand, to find delight in so doing it, Erik hoped the worst fate for him when the justice system exposed their turncoat. For having no shame in it, for claiming the life and rights from a girl, calling her his, directing every step she took, every thought she entertained: it merit the deepest disgust, as well as envy. _But even I, monstrous Erik, never did that to Christine. While she was in his power and at his every mercy, it was never wicked and to the ends of making her the image of Erik himself._

Power and influence, it was enviable. But now, Erik found himself prepared to meet him, fight him, duel him not for the man's crimes, but for what the man possessed, or at least claimed to anyway. 'My little silhouette,' he'd named her. A title with which he petted her, compliment her, leered at her, kissed her. She did not deserve it. She belonged to no one, but here a young woman walked among the world, stripped of her own being, and wore someone else's character. _She should hate him, yet she follows him! She obeys, respects, admires him!_

Those footsteps were advancing up the stairs, ever so cautious still. But they were light steps. Not that like a man's. Betraying better judgment, Erik felt his throat fill as his voice traveled out, thrown with his ventriloquial talent.

"_Avril_?"

The single syllable rose thickly from the throat, as if it dripped of syrup. With her name, it brought the image of her face. Never before had she become so vivid to the mind's eye. The eyelashes had fallen, with her eyes almost rolling back. That wicked little lip, for once, didn't peak with a smirk. As entertaining it was to see it, Erik distinguished it different from every other of her expressions. So close! And of her own will she ventured. . . nearer and nearer to his face, breathing the same air. Their lips had just touched. . . It must've been a hallucination, as it exist for barely a second.

"Erik?" her answering call, breaking the stale air with a whisper.

From the stairs, between the bars of the railing, he saw her ascend. Gone was that moment, though the exhilaration of it still lived. Relieved, the arm fell from his side. She was here. She was not afraid. At least her presence confirmed the passing of danger. Both feet were strapped again within the worn boots. With so little trouble she seemed to walk, enough to be stealthy. Anger still rasped her voice from moments before, articulating despite breathlessness.

"All's well," she declared. "They've all cleared out. You'll be safe to leave."

"That is a relief," sighed the Persian, tiredly.

"What happened down there?" asked Erik. Both eyes had trained on Avril.

"They saw nothing, found nothing inside, nothing to suspect you'd been there. Estelle and Melli pretended to be asleep. Thankfully, they both still care about me enough to save my hide."

"And ours," shrugged the Persian. "But I heard a man from inside yell like he saw something. What was that about?"

"Oh!" gasped Avril. "You know what that was?" From the inside of her brown coat, sticking awkwardly out of a pocket, a dull, thinned heel. "They think it's yours: said you either couldn't have gotten far or the angels are wearing loafers."

"What!"

"After all," grinned Avril, "they didn't see it fall passed the kitchen window like I did." Catching a glimpse of Erik, feeding upon his own friend's clumsiness, Avril could hardly blame herself for letting a little laughter slip. "In spite of all your years experience, Daroga, you're a disgrace!"

"Those years of experience were acquired in Persia, of course," stated Erik, smiling himself, "where it was either sandals or barefoot." Nadir's grumbling did not help him in the least. Avril took the greatest pleasure, but at a side glance, she noted how Erik's bottom lip seemed to shape in his own reaction.

"Alright, knock it off, both of you," muttered the Persian. "You're not that funny, Silhouette." The last of the sentence pronounced with a roll of the eyes.

"What?" she asked.

"Erik's little name for you," he explained, all the while pulling and adjusting his jacket and shoe laces. "Is that a compliment or some private joke?"

"Does he take credit for it?" Avril's quirked brow cast a teasing word over the Persian's bent form, over upon Erik. "Actually it's. . . just like how people call him the Phantom. I go by many names, but all one and the same person."

"And just what will the world come to? You two together are a deadly package. . . Alright, I think I've had enough fun here for tonight. Erik, I hope you know another way back into the Opera House. Otherwise, I'll be sleeping out on the street. No hotel is safe now."

"How about the one on Haussmann Boulevard?" suggested Avril. "It's abandoned and all boarded up. Should be safe for at least one night. It used to be a boarding house."

"And it's safe?"

"Erik has been there, Daroga," he affirmed. "He may show you the way."

". . . One of your hideaways or some other?" retorted the Persian, flicking a suspicious look, disdaining.

"No. It's a lookout, for whenever my favorite street musician comes out to play in the square. I took Erik to hear him once."

"Ah. . ."

"Listen," sighed Avril. Suddenly shy, almost stabbed in the heart through every word: "This is not what I intended to do to you. It really is not my fault, but I'm sorry that it's happening on account of me. After tonight, and once Bertrand resigns from the gendarme guard, I'm sure you won't have to worry about this manhunt anymore."

"I've survived worse."

"You're welcome to stay there, as long as you need to. If you want to leave the city, I also have a few reliable contacts that can offer sanctuary."

"That's uh. . . very kind of you, Avril," Nadir replied, clearing his throat. "But actually, I'm not going to run, just yet."

"Oh, then what?"

"Not until after the ball tonight, at least."

Judging Erik's reaction, from her perspective, it shouldn't have come as a surprise. Why shouldn't the young Comte not thank the man that brought him and his fiancée together, and saved them? There'd been too much being planned and predicted for the future for her mind to be clear enough to expect this. "You cannot. . . Are you out of your mind!"

"It's not that dangerous, or is it?" he questioned.

"Oh no, no, no, please!" begged Avril, more horrified by the minute. "Don't do this to me. We've been planning this caper for months. And why do you want to go knowing Bertrand will be there?"

"Avril, I'm not afraid of your young man. The Comte de Chagny will not tolerate-"

"The Comte de Chagny?" hissed Avril. "He's a sailor who's never been out to sea in anything but a rowboat, and can sleep sound through a prowler rummaging his room for the key to his family vault. You think he's any protection!"

"Are you worried I'll expose you all?"

"You can't be there!"

"Erik will vouch for his silence, Avril," he spoke up.

"What?" echoed both.

"Where do you presume the right to do so?" demanded the Persian.

"This does not concern you, Daroga," warned Erik. "Whatever takes place this evening coming, Erik will take full responsibility for it."

"I promise no will come to harm," seconded Avril. "Please, just this one night, and you'll never have to see me again."

"No. But I will not forget you," he said. Baring his soul through dark eyes: "And I will not forgive myself, Avril, if I let some lost soul walk away from protection into a dark world."

"What?" she puzzled.

"Avril-"

"What on earth are you talking about? Why should you care, Daroga? I never did anything for you. . . Why?"

Wisdom of years held him back from answering, and despite her frustration, she saw he refused to be plain. It was all an attempt of trying to bestow guilt. Her throat tightened and the stare he gave was returned with a smoldering glare, one that she seemed to pick up from somebody else.

"Don't make me any trouble," murmured Avril.

". . . I won't," he nodded.

"And if you do, I will make your life worse than any Devil's Island exile."

"So you say," replied the man, still nodding, even smiling.

"I mean it!"

For some reason lost on her, it gave him immense pleasure. He laughed in his silence, in possession of a secret she had no grasp on anymore. Avril watched the man go, robbing her of speech in the process. "Erik, I believe I shall accept your friend's hospitality, and it's rather late, will you be so kind as to escort your old friend? Avril, I bid you good night."

"Get out," she snapped.

_That's it? What are you about, ready to take your revenge on me, then let me go? What do you know? What do they say about me when I'm not here? Don't look at me like that! _Just discovering how low Erik's eyes fell, finding him smirking, she almost withdrew a couple steps. _They know about the raid. Do they intend to stop me? What if that's what they mean to do, that they meant to do all along? What if he's only there because of. . ._

"Have you something to say, Phantom?" retorted Avril.

"Mademoiselle is angered by the Daroga, is she?" he sniggered darkly. "He's a mystery that one: neither enemy or ally. It's actually a relief to have you around, so Erik does not have to put up with him all alone, endure him."

"At my own expense!" A rather vindictive laugh resonate as the object of ridicule journeyed back down the stairs. "Well, I suppose you must be off too, and show him his shelter for the night."

"Oh, Erik is in no hurry."

"Why?"

"Suddenly cured, are we? Your foot?"

A morbid blush instantly flushed through both cheeks. With so many matters of importance on hand, she had forgotten the pain. There had been pain, but rather minimal. It wasn't terrible enough to keep her from walking, maybe to limp, but no more. She'd thought nothing of it putting on both her boots. If it had been worse, the pain would've been excruciating. Just another trap she'd laid herself. A mistake! Of course, it's not as if a great raid and pillage had been foiled by her mistake, but she'd been caught nonetheless, over the most trivial thing. The thief was losing her touch.

"You uh. . . best be going too," Avril swallowed. "Best that Bertrand or none of the others on patrol tonight catch you two around the house."

"Avril. . . Dear little Silhouette, you need not be afraid to look Erik in the eye. So, you do not hurt as much as you had us believe. But tell me, because Erik is rather intrigued, what had you to gain from it?"

"Gain?" she repeated dumbly.

"What did you gain by playing up a sprained ankle?"

"N-Nothing."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, nothing."

This method of torture practically reduced her to a child. It had her stomach knotted and throbbing, slightly nauseous, and her mouth too dry for speech. More secrets. He had a way about him, unlike others, to kindle her in a way like fire flushes the game from the brush. She was prey. All the disguised, buried-deep things of the heart: none of them were safe anymore. Once again, she nearly trembled under the intensity of his long stare. Erik took none of it.

"If you say so," he relented, pleasing her. "So, as it is best, Erik will depart and allow you to retire."

". . ."

"Perhaps, farewell then."

"But-" At that point, he had started to round the newel post at the top of the stairs. She merely placed her hand down. Most unintentionally, but as it would happen, her hand landed over his. . . her one gloved hand. "You haven't. . . you haven't, told me where you will be. . . If you are to go, how will Christine find you?"

"Erik will think of that when it comes time," he concluded.

Their hands had not parted. Looking down at them, the heart raised to a thrilled pulse. He had caught her deception, but he had not known why, fortunately. _Or did he? Well, he was right. I did have something to gain from it. It's no wonder girls like to faint, anything to be in the arms of the man. . . Yes, to be in his arms._ Even, for just the few moments: to be held, to be treated so gently, to be close. Melicent had tried to help her, offer her body to lean on getting out of the carriage and back into the house. But he was there.

"No doubt," replied Avril. "But. . . _how will I find you_?"

"Will you. . . you mean, you would look for Erik?" he stuttered briefly.

"Of course. . . Well, it's a ball; I hope that you'll at least save me once dance before your moonlight flit."

"You should not be so desperate as that, so that you should resort to flirting with Death itself."

"You think I flirt?" A brow cocked. "Flirt with you? Would I even be alive if I tried?"

"Not likely."

Her secrets boiled. Her face boiled with them. It ended only once Erik's gloved hand withdrew from hers. Did he simply withdraw, or worse, recoil? Avril hoped to see an answer manifest in that lower lip. For neither a smirk or scowl rested on them. There was no trusting his expression in the eyes; they were misleading.

"Erik does not trust his plans to a stranger, lest she give him away," he responded, flippantly. "Simply look beyond the crowds, through the empty rooms and near the courtyards and the gardens."

"Well, that's good. I don't want to have to travel to the edges of the earth looking for you, Erik."

Oh, it cannot be! What are you? Do I make believe what I hear? Have I known you all this time, only now to really see you for the first time? How is it possible? How has everything changed so much, from the first night wishing never to see you again to now be dreading the moment we say that goodbye? I do not need you anymore.

"I will find you," promised Avril.

". . . Good night, then. . ."

"Good night. . . Erik."

_Stop! Stop! Tell me the truth; I dare you to tell! Why didn't you? Would you have done it again? Did you really mean to kiss me? Because I hope now that I'm mistaken._

* * *

With excessive force, the door slammed and shuddered in its frame. The brutal hand still trembled. The maid had left a single candle burning in the foyer, knowing his returning hour from duty. And sighing, full glad, he praised this would be the last night of it. No more long hours on patrol, no more walking through rain or sledge in the cold of the year, no more humid nights trapped in a tight uniform to be soaked by his own sweat, no more taking orders, no more pretending. And with even more better reason to be happy, no more would he be watching from the distance, watching her.

The dried mud under his heels did not bother him any, not enough to take care and remove them before stepping into the hall. The buttons of his coat were practically being torn from their holes. Both mind and mouth ached desperately for the bite of his last bottle of scotch in the pantry. If he had no priorities for tomorrow, he'd have wholeheartedly consumed it, gulping it to dryness. Then a whisper came to his ear, coming from the parlor, near the window.

"He's home," mumbled the boy.

"Ah, there you are, Bertrand," Vérène called out. "Right on time."

"What do you want? I'm in no mood now," groaned the man.

"We know. Gaspar, will you do the honors?" Their lad leaped to the task, serving up a glass from the decanter above the hearth. By the level of it, they all had been sampling his good drink for some time. Bertrand welcomed it with an irritated grunt. "Poor fellow, you look quite done in. How did it go? You catch your slippery Persian?"

"We've got worse problems," replied Bertrand.

"Cigarette, darling?"

"Please!" With his greedy acceptance, both his other self-invited guests helped themselves to their seconds as well. "I don't know what we're going to do; we almost had him. If we can't catch him, there's a chance Faure is going to show up at the ball, bringing the barred carriage." Gaspar struck the match, making the round to each before tossing it to extinction in the dead coals in the grate.

"So he hasn't been home since?" asked Vérène.

"Nowhere to be seen. One of our men did get a glimpse of him going down Avril's street. They went in and actually searched the place."

"No!" cried Gaspar. "You searched Avril's house?"

"What choice did I have? I didn't give the orders."

"Well, what happened? Did they find anything?"

"Nothing, nothing to give any indication a man had been inside or near there," grumbled Bertrand.

"You seem doubtful," Vérène insinuated. "Did you see anything?"

"Avril and her sister were out late; they came home in a hired carriage with a man. Never got a look at his face. He stayed for a few minutes, some time before the Persian actually arrived."

"So you saw him?" said Gaspar.

"Well, of course, I saw him. But I couldn't tell the commissioner that I saw the man if I did not arrest him myself. That would be a whole other story."

". . . So, what now?" Vérène persisted. "Are we in any danger?"

"I'm no longer suspicious," declared Bertrand. His smoky breath filled the air overhead, the deepest and longest of sighs. "Avril has mistakenly made some friends, friends who may have taken too much an interest in our affairs."

"Well, that's no surprise," retorted the woman, puffing in return.

"I don't believe it!" gasped Gaspar. "How? Avril's never risked anything before; why-"

"Why? How could she?" muttered Bertrand. "She's not herself anymore. Of course, you can't blame her with Melicent coming down with cancer, getting a death sentence from the doctor. But it's altered her, and her plans for them. She's been trying to make arrangements for Melicent and Estelle to tag along when she leaves the country. Now, all this caring has begun to make her careless."

"Oh, that's not it!" laughed Vérène. "Bertrand, you're old enough to know it. Little girls worship their idols, the champions who save them in need. She's not in need anymore, she's no sweet, little girl anymore, and you're not her idol anymore. It's the effect of another man taking your place."

"I'm not replaceable."

"Not to me, maybe," she teased him. Her red lips curling to the side, out which a small hole released more smoke. "But this project of yours, going after some old man you think knows too much, is a distraction; it would be preferable to-"

"Vérène, I wouldn't do that," murmured Gaspar. "A man doesn't like to admit when he's jealous."

"It's true, though, the Persian is a man knowing too much," affirmed Bertrand. "If he was truly innocent, why would he be running from the police? Avril has nothing to do with it."

"No," said Vérène, "but you don't really want him, do you? The Persian is just your key to finding _him_, and _he's _the man you really want. And to add to that, you don't know the man."

"Well, the foreigner, he's a curious man. Some would call him eccentric, but not so much as he looks at all. I did a little research. He hails from Persia. In fact, he was once a high-ranking official, the chief of police for the Shah himself."

"The Shah?" Gaspar repeated.

"The royal sovereign of Persia. He controlled matters of the royal household, and managed all covert affairs within the police force there. He was banished from his country over ten years ago after he helped a condemned criminal evade arrest."

"That's peculiar. Why didn't they just arrest him and execute him?"

"Supposedly, they found the condemned man dead days later. The body had washed up near their coast. Not all those details were made very clear. Nadir Khan was discharged from his service, given a small pension, and a clear mandate never to set foot again on Persian soil."

"Well, I can't blame you then," admitted Gaspar. "You couldn't put anything past a man who would do that."

"His story is pretty interesting. But with his sympathy he has for condemned members of society, I'm worried he's been a threatening influence on Avril. And this other man."

Vérène dragged quickly and tapped some ashes against a tray on the table. "Avril was never to be trusted, Bertrand. She's more than appealing to other men besides yourself. Don't you think so, Gaspar?"

"Sure. But still, I know better than to try," chuckled Gaspar, only to the annoyance of his superior. "She's not just a beauty. If I had something she wanted, I wouldn't even turn my back to her. I once saw her bring down a man _twice her height_, that Russian count, remember? She had him flat on the ground, gagged, with whip marks down his face and chest. His servants found him in the morning shaking like a leaf and burning with fever. All the poor man tried to do was propose."

"That was to be expected," Bertrand disagreed. "I've always warned her about being alone in a room with any man, regardless. _Especially if he has the key and locks the door himself_. I know what happened there; that was defense."

"If you're worried she will betray you, Bertrand, then why don't you simply involve some of your friends on the force to follow her?" suggested Vérène. "Or. . . better yet, bring in one of those bounty hunters who actually work for their money?"

"It's not a bad idea."

"You can't treat her all soft and gentle now. This is life or death tonight, and it's our only chance at the jewels and the Angel's Tears."

"As if I don't-"

Glass smashed in the back of the house, a sound creating quite a startle in the three of them. But nothing else followed, no voice, footstep, no intruder. Perhaps someone had thrown a rock through the window. They each surmised a hundred things, but with all three, the first one suspected was the Persian. Following in a close second, Avril.

Bertrand led the way to the unlit dining room, pistol drawn and raised. At first, it appeared to be human. Stepping in, a large shadow swung before the shattered window, quivering in the early morning breeze. Gaspar, the only one still clinging to his cigarette, nearly choked on his smoke.

"What the devil!" he hissed.

"It's not. . ." mumbled Vérène.

"No," said Bertrand. The gun was lowered. "It's not a body."

"But. . ."

"Hey, isn't that, it is!" observed Gaspar. "It looks like one of your suits."

"Why is it hanging there?" wondered Vérène. "Looks spooky."

Obviously, the whole outfit hung suspended from a rope: suit coat and pants, with the white waistcoat and long-sleeve cuff shirt, cravat, and top hat which sat on the collar tilted. The way the wind moved it, breathing through it, was a disturbing resemblance of a criminal hung from the crossroads in the old days. Flesh dissolved and bones missing, this is exactly how it looked.

Just as Bertrand began to poke at it and make observation, the body of clothing fell, revealing the full shape of a noose from where the neck collar was dangling. Attached by an additional twine string, a note.

"Is this a joke?" pondered Gaspar.

"Nobody goes to this length to make a joke. And nobody can set this up and disappear so fast," said Vérène, stepping away. "Somebody wants you dead, I'm afraid."

They did not note the violent shaking Bertrand could not control in his hand. Whether it was anticipation or true fear, even he was uncertain. The folded paper and perfect wax seal, to the touch, was still warm, straight from the other's pocket.

"What is it?" begged Gaspar. "Who-"

"Well, it has an invitation in here. . . to the Chagny ball," said Bertrand. "I already have mine, so. . . Oh, here's what he says. . ."

"What! What!"

Vérène could not wait either, and instead peaked over his shoulder. "_'Come if you dare to. I would consider it an honor to meet you. Do no harm, and I shall do no harm. If you plague any good lady, I will prove myself to be just that. O.G.' _"

"O.G.?"

"Who's that?" sneered Vérène. "O? How many names start with O?"

". . . It's not a name," answered Bertrand. Without a word, they followed after him, in his sudden state of realization, striding for his study. Among all the muddle and untidiness of research papers, news columns, and public records covering the top of his desk, Bertrand knew exactly where to find it. It was always in his mind and close to his heart, memorizing every word and sentence and punctuation. Half of it was related to the Persian, Nadir Khan, but now, he no longer mattered. An almost madman smile and glow came to his eyes. From beneath a pile of newspaper, Bertrand pulled out couple torn pages, putting it into Gaspar's anxious hands.

"What? What am I looking for?" he demanded.

"Khan, supposedly, had a friend at the Opera. He seemed to know everything involving the chandelier accident, the Comte de Chagny's murder, and the disappearance of Christine Daaé."

" _'Not only he but all staff of the Opera Garnier lay the blame of many of these accidents with one individual. Man or other, who knows? But he signs all his notes with. . . O.G.' _" Color left the boy's face. " _'An abbreviation of Opera Ghost.' _"

"So, he's real!" gasped Vérène, eyes wide. "It's him! The same man you all thought wasn't real-"

"Constable Faure never believed it," nodded Bertrand. "But I didn't. Now we have proof. He is indeed flesh and blood. . . and he's in love."

"He's not going after the same girl again, is he?" questioned Gaspar. "At the Comte's own ball; is he insane?"

"Oh, very!" chuckled Bertrand. "But now we know who and why. Our Persian's got every reason to fear for his life, not just from us. This man, also called the Phantom of the Opera, is known for his talent with the Punjab lasso."

"And he wants to meet you," said Vérène, a little shaky too. "If you plague any good lady, he said. . . Huh."

"What do you mean?" Gaspar's brow furrowed.

"He didn't specify, did you notice?" Holding up their corresponding note: "He doesn't say 'my good lady.' He doesn't even mention Miss Daaé by name. Bertrand?"

"Well, why though? Doesn't he obviously mean that?" guessed Gaspar.

"No, you idiot. He didn't use her name. . . _It may not be Miss Daaé he's referring to_; what do you think?" she asked, turning to Bertrand.

"What do I think, you ask? Honestly, I can't wait to meet him myself."

"And the fact that-"

"Why should it bother me at all? I'm not afraid of him," he boasted. "I hope I can vouch for you both that you are not either." Neither one spoke, only inciting Bertrand to laughter. "Alright, if that's how you feel. But you two both realize that fear is exactly what pleases him most. He's no specter. I anticipate to see if he has the courage, when the time comes, if he'll show himself."

Oh, he did laugh, he jested. All the while, though, it didn't escape them how the blood left his face. Even, at that moment, the heart beat disquietedly within. For a few minutes since the window, they were easily led to believe in his calm and no-need-to-fear way. Avril was not to be trusted, but he wouldn't be betrayed. Everyone faced discovery and arrest every moment of the day, but it didn't move him to panic. There was a madman out there, prepared to take his life, but it was no enemy he'd never dealt with before.

Then all four walls creaked that instant, which dismounted every picture frame and toppled a few books from the piles shelves. Vérène screamed shrilly, gripping into Bertrand's arm with every hooking nail. What candles and gaslights burned in the room hissed, suddenly snuffed out. It was a violent enough shake to be an earthquake. Gaspar's wide eyes, now wild, fixed upon the stilled hands and paralyzed pendulum of the clock against the wall. All of these things. . . at the same time.

"_Not afraid of me, you say_?" Suave and icy, as ever a man's voice could be, piercing every ear in the lowest of whispers.

* * *

Morning blurred across the clock with the approaching hours. For all the staff and personal servants of the guests, there was no rest. The masters and mistresses of the house were perfectly content to be lazy, eager to be up all night and awake into the next day. Come the time of the ceremony, the majority of their guests would be sleepy and slumbering in the pews. Everybody only worried about three things: whether or not the food would run out, whether or not there would be a wedding tomorrow, and if the couple, once married, will even get away. Rumors spread quickly.

Raoul and his fiancée were at odds about something. No one knew what, but surmised, if anything, it must be a former lover of the chorus girl's. It would be a grand spectacle of an event if not for her. They sought out Avril when their questions came up. If she happened to be nearby, they begged for any of the latest news. Do they still love each other? Is the wedding still on? Is she inviting any old acquaintance to the ball? any rivals of Raoul's? One after another was rebuffed. And Avril, though holding to silence, said nothing to her mistress' defense.

Called to her chambers to help the petite girl into her dress, Avril swallowed everything, especially when it came to the dress. Christine delicately stepped into the silk and taffeta garment, freshly pressed and still smelling of the beautiful perfumes of the woman's dressing parlor. The laces in back crisscrossed in a painfully, complicated fashion. Avril pulled the hem down and over both the hoops and padding that made the bustle.

"Do you like it?" she asked.

"Why does my opinion matter, Miss Daaé?" shrugged Avril. She tried to keep her eyes low and away from the mirror, looking anywhere but on the dress and model. She'd already seen the dress out of the box - beautiful, without question.

"Raoul and his sisters insisted on it. I didn't intend to spend so much. If you knew what it cost, well, it's ridiculous."

"I'm afraid you never have a say in the matter. You are only a queen; you cannot dictate your king."

"If I were going to marry him, maybe, I would concede. But as a woman who will betray him, throw him over, I really don't deserve it. . . It's a shame. Doing this, I'll forever destroy the fond memories of ours as children. He will always be dear for that, but not more dear than. . ."

"Whatever you think is necessary," simpered Avril, tipping a smile to her reflection.

"You think it too. . . ?"

"No, not at all. It becomes you very well."

Sadly, she hated admitting, it did become her. It wasn't just blue. Picking it out of the woman's parlor, they called this exact shade cerulean. A fine work of crochet decorated the bodice, from the décolletage to the waist. Silk ribbon and lace, a more pale blue, trimmed the collar, down and around the neck, around both arms. It didn't scoop low, making no outrageous declaration. For it was all in her taste; in fact, it had been Christine's specific request.

_The girl could wear anything, of course. Engaged to a nobleman, becoming the top woman of Parisian society, with all the money to fuel the lavish reputation it comes with: here she stands before them in the most demure of dresses. Maybe he sees that, and he likes her for it._

Christine responded sullenly to the knock at the door. Thinking it was Raoul, she jumped a little, a little frantically calling him to come in. Instead, to her embarrassment, the housekeeper entered with the head butler just behind. He waited at the door; fulfilling her duty, the darkly dressed woman placed a large baize box on the vanity table. It had Avril's attention instantly, the sight simply thrilling. For it had been expected, and it was nearly as exciting as being the one to wear the stones herself.

Snapped from her trance, Avril was bid forward by the housekeeper. The very touch of the chains had her skin tingling at the finger tips, going breathless as each tiny sapphire bumped against her wrists. Over and down, carefully, draping them across the girl's chest. She held back her hair while Avril snapped the chains snuggly together. They were given a brilliant name for all that they resembled. And Christine Daaé, perfectly shaped, trimmed, and decorated, glowed in heavenly splendor. Gold curls. . . blue eyes. . . the heart-shaped mouth, rose complexion, and milky skin, all of it dressing the eighteen year old, had no rival in any other woman.

A pair of earrings joined it, with complementing stones. By the end of it, having thanked the housekeeper and made sick by the ritual, Christine nodded and sent them both away. Tears glistened but remained within the eyes, not giving way into trickles down the cheek.

"Do you. . . need any help with your dress, Danièle?" she turned, asking.

"No, thank you. I'm perfectly capable. Will there be anything else?"

"I wish I'd found my ring first, the gold band. How would I explain such a thing to Erik?"

"He'll understand. And I'm sure, when you show him your little present, he'll forget about some silly ring. It's almost like an engagement ring for him."

"I hope he likes it."

"I'm sure he will."

"Since he is to come, and Raoul knows about it, I'm hoping to meet him outside in the garden. If you. . . well, as you know him, if you do happen to see him, will you let him know?"

"Of course."

"And after I speak with him, I will take Raoul aside and speak with him, give him a proper goodbye and thanks. I'll come find you, and. . . these jewels, will you be so good as to have them returned back to the housekeeper, who will return them to the vault?"

"It will be done."

As the girl ventured to say no more, Avril took it as her cue to go. "May I say one more thing, Danièle?" said Christine, more rather entreating.

"Yes?"

"As you've done so much, and have been so loyal and willing in your service to me, I want you to have something-"

"What are you talking about? That's not necessary."

Avril's words meant nothing and went unheeded as Christine walked round the side of her bed, taking up her old jewelry box. Since that first night, Avril had not touched it, especially after being caught. Many things had begun that night. Never, though, had she foreseen an end like this. A dear and sweet child, naïve, too soft a being for the great world indeed, but in the journey, not everything had been bad. Christine touched and attached to people's heart, very much like her own sister. Sometimes, just the way her own fiancé would look at her, put her down for something, or try and reprimand her, Avril felt the same protective instinct and the retaliation against somebody injuring a fragile creature so dear to her.

Yet, most of the time, it was not sweet at all. Poor, innocent girl had no clue what her kindness did to people, especially when she thought them righteous. That alone made it worse. She opened her box and presented it freely.

"Please, I want you to have one of my own jewels: necklace, bracelet, whatever you like best."

"Truly?" replied Avril.

"But are these well. . . anything special?" Her mother's own black ribbon necklace with the pendant shone in the light. Even that!

"Anything you like, please."

_Very well, if you insist. They're nothing to the real things they pretend to be, but I'm not pretentious enough to say I couldn't want them. I suppose it's the least you could do for me._ But feigning a look of discernment and caution, Avril rummaged with a couple fingers, poking here and there. The choice, a difficult one. Hopefully, there was nothing else among the family treasures she'd be accidentally plundering. Knowing the history of the red stone, her eyes bypassed it altogether.

"I do like this. It's rather pretty. Hope it's not a family keepsake."

"It's always been a favorite of mine. I'm glad you like it."

Tiny, pearl-like beads beautifully formed a chain, with glass ones in between, giving off a shimmer like the diamonds. No pendant. Nothing ostentatious. Another trinket exactly to the tastes of this modest Swede girl. There is beauty in everything, even in the simplest forms. _Innocent beauty, innocent mind, therefore an innocent love_, she mused.

"Here, as long as you like it, you might as well take the earrings too. They go well with it. Might even go perfectly with your dress tonight."

Avril blushed indignantly, embarrassed and ashamed at once. Still, a smile was managed. "I am very flattered by your offering. And thank you, for allowing me to serve you, Miss Daaé. _It's been a pleasure_."

"I hope the very best for your future, Danièle," replied Christine. Then, more seriously: "And also, for your sister."

"Oh. . . Yes, thank you. . . Well, I ought to be getting dressed now. I s-shall see you downstairs shortly then. . ."

While Christine's door was closed duly soft, her door rattled in its frame as it closed. Her heart seemed to be in her hands, clenching and throbbing from the inside. Necklace and earrings in her hand had been squeezed hard enough to make an imprint in the gauze. The injury and the 'curing' had not been forgotten. Erik's own handiwork had nearly been as awful as the drunk who kicked and dislocated her fingers in the first place. Since then, at least she could manage on both gloves. No one had asked or cared to be enlightened.

For having the nerve to think so thoughtfully of Melicent, Avril scarcely retained a scream. What pleasure, immense pleasure, she'd have taken to hurl something through her own window, or overturn the vanity and mirror, hear them smash!

Reason returned with the passing moment, and her composure and sanity. All tender feelings deadened. Getting dressed had to be the greatest of importance that moment. There was plenty of detail to see to, to conceal. With the constant change in fashion, irritating her out of her mind, the dresses and the cuts always had to be adapted. Before even laying the dress out on the bed, Avril selected a new pair of tight-fitted beige trousers. It had to be beige, so that the color would not show through the skirts. A belt held them tight in place. Preceding the stockings, she carefully strapped a holster around the left knee. It was even tested to be sure it wouldn't slip while walking. With the hoops and skirts over it, the hilt of her pistol would be thoroughly concealed from the keenest of eyes.

Once done, the rest of her attire was feminine and flare. Stockings, heeled dance slippers, chemise, corset, and lastly the hoop cage. With the purchase of every new dress, Avril left it in Bertrand's care. The entire garment was unhappily rendered in two, and returned to its owner with additional seams, loops, and buttons. Whatever the given occasion, she'd be capable of dancing and sipping champagne one moment to scale a roof or jump from a balcony the next. The skirt and hoops could be flung aside, making no impediments to their escape. The moment they came off and were discarded, Avril enjoyed the reactions of observers the most. Men and women alike, gaping and gasping, the defrauded looks in each of their faces, what fun! And how extraordinarily funny!

Doing no injustice to herself, it wasn't very revolting or unbecoming. But being honest with her reflection in the mirror, all to herself, a sneer grew in her lip judging the low neck. It dipped a little low, not vulgarly but. . . It made her shoulders flagrantly bare, and the décolletage, in addition to the cinching ties of the corset, it was embarrassing how much did show. _I've worn these kinds of dresses before, but it's not like anybody's said something about it. The belles of the ball with their good mothers around don't dare parade this much skin. Christine certainly does not!_ Between the hot surges flooding her cheek, due to no help of the rouge, the mind ran miles in circles. _Surely, I can do something. I can't pull it any higher, and if I try to tie it higher, I risk showing the slit in the waist._

A chemisette seemed the first solution. A trend all the rage with the matrons and spinsters, but it would do the trick. Having no second alternatives, Avril searched her meager drawers for an answer. Sadly, none! None of her contemporaries thought her in need of one. _And I can't wear a shawl all night. What do I do? Why can't women wear everything all plain and simple like the men do, for crying out loud!_ The casement hanging with the drapes or the gossamer veil hanging from the four poster bed might've sufficed. Or perhaps. . .

"May I come in?" The voice and knock behind her door gripped her coldly.

"Vérène?" she muttered warily. "What are you doing here?"

Invitation enough. And with one look, Avril had the answers, the source of her turmoil. The older woman, having never had any use for good taste, proudly paraded a garish rose red. Sleeves hardly existed. All her laces were tight, and the décolletage as low as Avril's, practically straight from the stages of burlesque house.

"Thought you might like a little help," she said, winking. The door closed softly behind, the feathery edge of her shawl fluttering. "Bertrand sent me on early, and to call myself a friend of yours to get me inside. Nice apartment you have here. Why. . . Avril, what in Heaven's name are you doing? You going to leave a trail of vandalism behind too?"

Having just finished her cutting, Avril tossed the scissors back into the drawer inside the nightstand. Nobody's company was really welcome at this moment.

"What for? Everything is fine," she huffed.

"What are you doing? Are you making a wrap or scarf of some kind?"

"None of your business," snarled Avril. Doing half turns before the mirror, she attempted to knot the two ends. "Could be worse, I guess."

"Worse? It looks ridiculous!" Vérène ridiculed. "What is this about?"

"Do you, Bertrand, and Gaspar expect me to go downstairs looking like this?"

"Like this?" laughed she. "Avril, this is nothing, if you mean it's indecent. Why the fuss? This is usual. You've worn plenty of gowns like this for the diplomats' balls and charity concerts we've done before. Come now, it's not going to look right wearing that downstairs."

"It goes with the dress. Leave me alone!"

"Who cares!"

"Well, I care. Whatever I do tonight, I don't want good people down there looking at me like a lady of the evening."

"It is not, good grief, child," she chuckled. "Nice little beads you have there."

"A gift from Christine Daaé. What message has Bertrand sent through you?"

"Well, before I go about my duty, I'm not letting you out of this room until you learn to present yourself with a little dignity."

"I don't have dignity, not in this dress."

"Dress or no dress!" snapped the woman. Her nails left a white mark as they snatched the pitifully shorn veil from her shoulder, throwing it across the bed. "Forget about it. You've no need for modesty, no more than your skirts and hoops. It just gets in the way. Now, Bertrand wants to know that you know exactly the order things will be done."

"We've been over it a hundred times, Vérène. Bertrand knows I have not a haphazard memory for these things."

". . . Perhaps not."

Busying herself with her hair and the taming of the beast, Avril did not give any attention to her words, and the dubious pause and tone it was used in. "Would you like me to repeat it, for your benefit, anyway?" Avril offered sarcastically.

"For the benefit of my sense of peace."

"We mingle and celebrate with the crowd, for the first hour or so. Then, everyone shall be called to dinner in the dining hall. We wait until all servants and guests are in their quarters, then lock all the doors. Don't worry. I have the key. Then, first things first, we go to the vault and make a clean sweep. If nothing goes wrong and have time, we return to the dining hall, and the rest is history. It shouldn't be different from any of our raids from before."

"It should not, and it better not. My debts and creditors are gone after tonight. It better be a success."

"As if this whole night hangs upon me," retorted Avril.

"Would you like some help with that?" asked Vérène. "You do have quite a lot of hair, after all." They were not fingers but tentacles: cold, slender, slick with a sweet-smelling cream. Half-expecting them to dig into her scalp, Avril shivered while her hands toyed, twisted, and held her hair, jabbing in the hair pins. Mercilessly too, they were fixed into place.

"I think I can hear the music now," Vérène crooned.

**Please review. Dying to know! Is Erik starting to pick up on something? What's going to happen to Bertrand? Or Avril? I promise, sorry to say, no good will come of all this. The next few chapters, when they come, will not be peaceful. If it can be improved, or if you hope to see something happen, drop a word or two. You might get your wish ;)**


	25. Chapter Twenty-Four

**This is one of the chapters I've been dying to get to for so long. Although, I admit, not my favorite of all. When I say that, I don't mean 'I am too good'. I mean, I just have fun writing it. To my Guest, known only by that, thank you for that review of yours. It made my day! Thank you all who've followed and favorite, or just shown curiosity. Unlike Erik, I love curious. . .**

~Chapter Twenty-Four~

If there was anybody in the world that would have good reason, it would be this woman. When they'd both first met, Vérène was a younger woman, quick on her feet, sharp of tongue, and more comely in appearance. Avril had even thought her as handsome as her mother, then. But the lives they led had a way of speeding the process of age. Their share of hardships and indulgences come by in this vagabond way of life resulted in things like early gray hair, lost teeth, scars, sunburn, blisters, and many other deprivations. Avril herself suffered a little, but this woman had been in this business much longer. Though early in her thirties, an added ten years showed in the exulted barmaid.

With the passing of years, her respect had gone. Avril grew taller. The womanly changes came, replacing the unoffending childish figure. Juvenile fears and fancies went out of those eyes. And Bertrand. . . began to admire it, smiling at one more than the other, confiding more to one than the other. An education developed an intellect, and intellect became her very well. It transformed a simply well-versed student into a master of the arts. Wise, no, but smart, very! Vérène knew it.

Now, it was coming to the fore, with the moment Avril's head and neck were wholly vulnerable to the hands of this woman. Whenever the bristles caught on a tangle, no compassion was spared it. It even raked across the ears, with no apology but a full sense of awareness. In the mirror, a smile raised in those puckered red lips. Her cheeks almost matched the color of the lipstick, doled on so generously. Vérène seemingly enjoyed the flinches and the grimace in her face, knowing the pain it caused. Her braiding was tight and uncomfortable. None of it, though, moved Avril to complain. Much of it was to be expected.

"Bertrand has been hunting a man in the city for the last two days," she drawled. "He's a foreigner, an older man, but so far, he's completely elude the gendarmes. He's worried the man knows something or other about us, and wants to go to the constable about it."

Though her voice struggled, she managed speech. "Why should he think that?"

"Oh, just suspicion, I suppose. And also a rumor that you two have met on a prior occasion. Bertrand thinks you're prone to cracking when under fire. I told him there's probably no reason to be fidgety about it. After all, this other man, he's not exactly an honest man. He has some unsavory connections himself who are trying to duck the law."

"Like who?"

"You ever hear about a strange story from the Opera Garnier, about some man called the Opera Ghost, or Phantom of the Opera? There's been some evidence confirming that this entity that supposedly haunts the theater is actually a living, breathing man."

"Oh?"

"This Persian man seems to know all his secrets. The police dismissed his claims, as the evidence was inconclusive. But Bertrand is certain that this madman is still on the loose, and that he's been roaming beyond the premises of his domain."

Avril sneered, rolling her eyes. "Why that hardly sounds like Bertrand," she replied. "He mentioned something or another about it awhile back. But he did not appear to give the stories any credit. And even if he does, why does he care? What does that phantom have to do with us?"

"And why should the Persian man have any interest in us? He knows this man called the Phantom, even tried to turn him over to the police. Not long later, you two meet by accident, and it's not something you care to talk about. . . Oh, and three or four nights ago, Gaspar saw you coming out of the Opera after a show, alone-"

"So that's what Bertrand sent you up here for? I told him exactly what happened that night, and Gaspar just saw it a little differently."

"Then you weren't very believable."

"Oh, I don't believe this!"

"And where were you last night before the police came to your door?"

"I was in my own house. Where do you think?"

"At that hour, you were home," she corrected. "But before then? Did you and Melicent simply decide to take a stroll out on these remote roads?"

"How would you know?"

"One of the gendarme members on patrol out here found some transient out in one of these neighboring fields, cold and stiff."

"And probably drunk too. How-"

"Actually, the alcohol had nothing to do with his death."

"And how exactly do you know all this?" tested Avril.

"Bertrand hears about everything that happens on everyone's patrol."

"Maybe true, but of all the policemen walking through my house last night, Bertrand was the only one with muddy feet."

". . ."

"And that field, you speak of, belongs to no one. How would anybody know where to look? Perhaps Bertrand saw it all. . . or was it all some design?"

Vérène's lip curled with a snarling sort of smile. "You've quite an imagination," she derisively flattered.

"You ask me why? Well, why not?"

"Do you seriously entertain the idea Bertrand would hire some strangers to attack you? I think you're losing your mind!"

"I know what you're doing. You know nothing, but talking that you do, and get the truth out. Bertrand's better at it than you."

"So, you admit, there is some truth to it. You were there and you knew about the man. Well, you're wrong. I know more. Bertrand did not see you alone."

"Of course not-"

"I don't mean little Melicent, or the carriage driver."

"To send a reply to Bertrand's message, tell him he was right about that. I wasn't alone, and if he wants to know who _he _is, tell him to be a policeman. Tell him to arrest me for conspiracy to murder. Give me those!" demanded Avril, snatching back the remaining hairpins from her hand. "What do you think my head is a pin cushion? I may play by Bertrand's rules, but beyond that, I have a life. It is not against the rules to keep useful connections. If I know this Persian, and I don't claim that I do, he may be useful to us. . . and maybe his specter of a friend too. Who knows?"

"You know more than Bertrand does; that's what I mean to warn you of, Avril. And I warn you, this will bode badly for everyone if something goes afoul in the works. Do as you are told. For tonight, at least, everything you say and do is not up to you to decide."

"Will you get out? Just go!"

"You'd rather be at the mercy of a man who cares, as opposed to the Punjab lasso."

Any object on the desk rattled under Avril's slammed fist. Without her dancing slippers and the additional couple inches of heel, Vérène stood taller. Confirming and denying nothing, not balking, Avril glared unblinking until the older woman saucily sauntered her way back out. The goal had been to irritate, to intimidate. Only too late did she realize, and berated herself for lashing out. The heart had opened too wide. Now, it had become prey to anyone who dared come within inches of the truth.

This was not a dream, just a duty.

It wasn't a choice. They all depended on her faithfulness.

She had no friends anymore. Friends betrayed.

Done with the hair, the final touches awaited. A superfluous array of cosmetics lay across the vanity table. Some were applied, but coming to the rouge, she shoved it away. Using the tips of her fingers, Avril spread the kohl thick along behind her eyes, producing the desired effect. Although, Christine didn't resort to it. Topping it, a very light blue with sparkle dusted the smoky layer. It pleased her enough.

From out of one of her drawers, kept for only special occasions, a bottle of perfume. Trying not to flaunt, Avril sprayed into the air and walked through the mist. Dipping the end, it was rubbed along the underside of her jaw and dotted on the unabashed shoulders. It had been too long since the last time she'd dared to wear it, but using it before, it did not matter. _What does Christine smell like? I think it's lilac or lavender. It's a flower, whatever it is, and the perfect degree of fragrance. Not faint but not overpowering either. _Last of all, the veil was pinned into the hair, which fell half in her face.

There was no more deadly weapon known to man.

* * *

Once learning of his bride-to-be's ulterior motives, wanting a masked ball, the Comte de Chagny tried and did everything possible to revoke it. But only half of the new invitations went out and reached their destination in time. The majority of all the company arrived in masks and face paint, much to his consternation. Of course, unlike the grand masquerade balls hosted at the Opera annually, this wasn't the full costume ball. Every guest came as himself. As guests of honor, Christine was announced descending the staircase, and then, joining Raoul at the front door, each guest was greeted by turns of bows, curtsies, handshakes, and kissing mademoiselle's gloved hand if he cared to do so.

Aristocracy snubbed her, showing only full attention to the Comte. Christine could not manage a word in edgewise, and even if she could greet them with their full attention, they were not acquaintances. She could say anything worthwhile. Their names were said one moment, forgotten the next; it wasn't easy with new faces and more names being introduced every ten seconds. The only people who greeted her with any sincerity came from the theater. Mme. Giry and her daughter refused the polite curtsies for heartfelt embracing. Such displays that unnerved Raoul to no end before his other guests. In the midst of their conversation, a troop of other young girls from the ballet entered in their best finery possible for poorer class girls. Mlle. Jammes, one of the many faces, seized Christine's hands and pecked at her cheek, showering praise over her dress and the loveliness of their party. The managers had been enthusiastic, though tamer than the others; greeting Miss Daaé was a perfectly cordial, correct exchange. What could they say, happy that their brightest star of the theater had abandoned them for marriage? It was a surprise to them both to see Sorelli. Having lost a fond companion in Raoul's older brother, she made no show of joy or congratulations for the couple. If Philippe had condescended to a marriage himself, it would've been her to be standing in Christine's place as the future Comtesse. Carlotta put on the grandest airs of them all, exceeding everyone else in their displays of happiness and well wishes for them. Christine stood frozen in the woman's embrace, unable what to think to say in response. While maybe not a singer, she was an actress.

But after the arrival of all Christine's friends, the procession of more members of the nobility was not so exciting anymore. He tried not to be disappointed with her.

"I'm sorry, Raoul."

"What for? What do you have to be sorry about?" he shrugged.

"They don't seem to like it. I seem to insult them simply by saying 'good evening.' "

"Nobody knows you here. They are bound to seem aloof, even cold. That's how most of them are, I'm afraid. Not to worry though, Little Lotte, you'll get used to it, by and by. And once you know them. . ."

More and more people streamed in, a surging tide. Pale and breathless, Christine nearly excused herself for a glass of champagne or a breath of air down the corridor. Then, a familiar face was upon them. A face they each welcomed.

"Why, M. Khan!" cried Raoul.

"You came!" seconded Christine, most delightedly.

"This is quite an honor, my boy," he nodded. For perhaps, he was the only guests who might get away with foregoing the young man's title. "And it's a pleasure. How are you both?"

"We are overwhelmed," said Raoul. The two men's hands joined and shook fiercely. "This is the best reception I could've hoped for, for all the family. Have you been well?"

"Just as always," he replied, dryly. "I am happy to see both will finally have a chance at a new start. You've quite an impressive line of friends, M. le Comte. Quite the support."

"Or at least, acceptance," he answered. "It's taken a lot out of my family. Thank goodness they love me."

". . . It's a shame your brother did not see it the same way."

"Yes, I am sorry too."

Christine had paled behind the shoulder of her fiancé, knowing the Persian showed more interest in her of the two. A lamentable event, and by the scale of things, Raoul having this ball, it wasn't exactly correct. Philippe's death was still too recent; it should've been reason for the two of them to elope. Done properly, they might've gone abroad for some time, returned, and then brought society back into Raoul's home. The older man's untimely death made this celebration permissible. Christine did not ignore that, or try to, unfortunately. Still, there was no room for her say until she would be mistress of the house. Perhaps everyone thought the same. They could forgive the younger brother, but not her.

"And you, Christine, how have you been?" Nadir asked kindly.

"I am well. Thank you."

"You certainly look pretty tonight."

"Thank you."

"And the mask suits you." Raoul's lip curled inwardly at his recognition. Despite his efforts, people came in masks, his fiancée included. A copper-like gold cover perched the end of its stick, with silver trimming dangling near the temples.

"I have not been to theater these last couple of weeks," Raoul spoke up, clearing his throat. "How are the affairs there? Back in order?"

"It's peaceful again, returning to normal," informed the Persian. "The managers have hired a new diva. Perhaps soon to replace La Carlotta. The audiences seem to like her."

"I am glad to hear it," nodded Christine. "I'm relieved they will not be suffering any losses with Carlotta and myself leaving."

"Carlotta? Oh no, the rumor is, she will be terminated in a short time."

"T-terminated?"

"No, I. . . I mean, dismissed. Fired."

"And what a relief," mumbled Raoul.

"Well, I do hope you will not be keeping her to yourself all night, my boy. Might you spare her for one waltz?"

"That can be arranged, if you don't object."

"No," said Christine, smiling. "Thank you, M. Khan. I shall be delighted."

Footmen, flocking in a threesome, were circulating the room with trays balanced on their own gloved hands. Nobody left unattended, and not offered a drink or hors d'oeuvre. All in all, he did not observe Christine speak very much. Meek, ineffectual little answers, replying to people's questions, or nodding at the very least. It certainly didn't suit her. How painfully and plainly it could be seen how poorly fitted Christine was for the position.

Several in passing, complimenting the young Comte, made plenty of comment and fuss over the necklace. And with a chill, Nadir remembered the great disaster foreshadowing this evening. It was practically the crown jewel of the Chagny collection. Her earrings matched the stones in the Angel's Tears. One among many valuables coveted by wretched thieves! His eyes furtively skimmed the crowds. Having the opportunity to wear a mask wasn't passed up, and he procured himself a black cloth covering that would veil his face from the forehead to the nose. Of course, it couldn't disguise him; his dark skin gave him away in such a fair complexioned multitude. At least, once the rogue lieutenant made his appearance, his jurisdiction would end at the mansion's threshold.

For a time, though, there was no sight of them, any one of them. It should've been enough to give relief, but it couldn't be hidden. As he took Christine to the next room to dance, his grip was a little too tight. His eyes upon her but seeing his own thoughts in a haze. Just like the innocent girl, she said nothing, if it made him uneasy. They each had saved each other's lives. It might've made them closer, from one person to another. And if the Persian had not been wandering the maze of his own murky mind, he'd have observed Christine in a similar mental state. One of anguish, knowing it was all pretense.

Whenever Raoul returned to the conversation, it veered toward future events. Through all, she kept silent. Discussing the honeymoon, and their destination, Raoul could not have chosen the worst of all places, and to say it at the worst possible time.

"I thought Perros-Guirec would be a fine place," he declared. "As it was a place of many happy memories for us as children. I met Christine and her father there. There's a little resort there with a fine prospect of the sea. And if it's warm enough, there will be opportunity for sea-bathing, even sailing. My governess and my brother forbid it, you remember, Christine? They didn't trust my abilities to swim, and even if they did, I don't believe they'd have trust you to my care and keeping."

"Just as any older brother should," nodded Nadir. "And now look at you, a member of the navy. Your brother certainly lost a bet."

"But he hasn't sailed yet," muttered Christine, added smiling too. "Well, what about that expedition to the North Pole? They certainly can't postpone it just for you."

"That can wait, Little Lotte. I'll simply be reassigned. And I'd prefer now, something involving less danger. I won't go if I cannot be confident I'll return home."

"Very wise," agreed Nadir. "And very considerate. Isn't he, Miss Daaé?"

"Always."

Sweat gathered just below her fair hairline. The organ beating inside her chest felt as though it fell into another part of her body, particularly into her left hand, where a chain and key were bound around her wrist beneath the glove. It may be hoped, if ever a day Raoul had the fancy, that he would never think to return to Perros-Guirec. Hopefully, to remain a place and time of childhood untouched. It would spoil the charm for him.

_How long could it take? _wondered she. _A few months, maybe three. Doesn't take long to take up with another girl. I pray he does marry. Six months? A year? Surely, I'm not worth such a long grieving period. He's only twenty-one, and the world is not flat. He may travel. There's still plenty of world for his life to be lived._

"That is a most. . . spectacular necklace," said Nadir, flicking an eye casually at the star-shaped pendant. "Must be worth a great deal."

"It's the best of the Chagny collection, or so I am told," nodded Christine. "Raoul insisted. I could've been content for far less than these."

"Nonsense, Christine," scoffed Raoul, nervously. "It would be an insult to let you come down in anything less than this. Every woman of the de Chagny name has worn this."

"Well, what does that matter? _A de Chagny or not, the lady deserves the best_."

All three were turned by the arrival of her voice into the conversation. Nadir accepted her entrance with no more than a cordial nod. Glancing over at the Comte, it wasn't taken for a compliment, and Avril certainly did not intend it as a word of credit to him. All too friendly and sisterly, she approached Christine right through their circle.

"Oh, Danièle, they're perfect!" declared Christine, most excitedly. "They're beautiful."

"You mean these? Oh, it was the sweetest thing of you; really, I do not deserve them."

"What things?" questioned Nadir.

"My mistress, she's the greatest of ladies. She thinks so highly of her servants, to give them tokens of her own collection. And they are lovely."

A silence grew between them all, and ever awkward too. For it would seem to Raoul, the mademoiselle could brush up on her manners. Christine treated her too much as her own equal, that entering a conversation with any of her superiors did not strike her as discourteous.

Of course, when it came to the Persian, Avril should have pretended to be a little more bashful. If all her plans turned out the way she intended, in reality, both she and Nadir would be strangers. A disdainful sort of smirk crossed those brown lips.

"Mlle. Perrin," Raoul began coldly, "might I introduce you to a friend of ours, M. Khan."

"What a pleasure," boasted Avril, dipping in a shallow curtsey. "_Danièle Perrin_, M. Khan: Miss Daaé's lady's maid."

"It is a pleasure," he nodded, "to be a friend to such a lady or a gentleman. Even being a member of staff." So far, it would seem, he played along. The conflict apparent in his eyes. Perhaps the eyes of a friend to her.

"M. le Comte was most kind to take me on, being so little experienced in any fine household."

"It was very kind," mumbled Raoul. A remark that earned a scolding nudge from his fiancée in the arm.

All the usual and dull topics arose that normally come with being newly introduced to someone else's acquaintances. Only thing she primarily avoided was the question: 'How do you know the Comte and Miss Daaé?' And feeling rather gracious that moment, he made no inquiries into the ambiguous history of Danièle Perrin. Raoul listened all too intently. Any incongruence would be detected. In no way was Avril inexperienced. The Persian knew where she had been and all she'd done, but to have accomplished so much, this is what it took. The young woman held to her disguise, memorized her stories backwards and forwards, and sounded convincing enough for the average person.

He did his best to keep his eyes from the dress, of which Avril was clearly aware. For he looked on her with eyes like a father shocked by his daughter who'd dare wear 'that' out of the house. Disgusted, ashamed. Older women walking by threw the same judging glares at her, especially around her scantly dressed shoulders and décolletage. Any decent, genteel woman could not look on her without a thorough hatred. In part though, it might be said some were even jealous. None of their daughters were allowed to want those dresses in the shops. Their daughters blushed at the sight of a woman and such a dress. And they had to compete with her for the eyes of their male company, all the more reason for revolt. The men, old and young, forced themselves to take no notice. Many before had so easily been snared by those long stares from her batting eye, and that half-smirk that teased her lip. When she would laugh, others nearby would turn. Nobody could help it. She wasn't like the rest.

Late guests came strolling in. Raoul happily took the advantage to escape the circle of conversation that now excluded him. Three men and a lady. All of them bearing masks, and they, on the other hand, were received hospitably.

"Thank you for coming," said Raoul. "Christine, may I introduce a highly decorated officer, a member of the gendarmes: Lt. Bertrand Boldvieu." So, Erik was disobeyed! Christine's face whitened, more indignant than fearful. Nadir tried not to convey anything out his face.

"I thank you for your invitation, M. le Comte," drawled Bertrand. The man chose himself a white jacket, black pants and dress shoes. A black mask, wrapping the upper half of his face. Gaspar and Vérène were not made any introductions, except as friends. At least, once Vérène stood in the room, Avril was now considered as modest as a nun. Gaspar was a dandy in a purple jacket and a gold cravat; the black mask, matching nothing, proved a poor attempt at debonair.

"Hope you do not mind my bringing my own party," relied Bertrand.

"Not at all."

"And one of them, a friend from the best circles of St. Petersburg, don't know if you know the imperious _Graf _Kir Chernobog?"

"From one place or another, how do you do?" said Raoul, shaking hands.

They'd all been expected, except for him. Looking to Avril, the Persian discerned a distinct chill flow in the veins of the jewel thief. An acquaintance of hers as well as Bertrand: there was more reason than was apparent to be nervous. Studying the man, a Russian count, it was instantly a face not worth anybody's trust. In a red coat, he came bearing all the medals and the cornet of his home country. The accent hit the ear gruff and thick, condescending, cool and coy. The smile like a natural reflex, and he cast one upon everybody. A single gold tooth beamed from the right side of the mouth.

When he surveyed the group and stopped at Christine, Nadir knew where they all stood. Those heavy, glazed eyes dropped to the girl's neck, fixing on the prominent jewels. Poor _fool, you pitiful soul, you have no idea what will befall you all tonight_, lamented the Persian. His sorrowful heart went out to no one like it did to the young Comte, who was only welcoming his guests and making the best impression he could manage without his older brother.

"What a splendid party," purred the Russian, tilting towards Bertrand's shoulder. "I love engagements and weddings best." He said more, though, inaudible with a few mutterings in his own language. Avril blushed, at least, out of some decency. Fortunately, the couple had never been anywhere near Russia in their lives. If he had, it would've merited a tooth-breaking fist right into the man's mouth.

"So you must be Miss Daaé," guessed Bertrand. "Couldn't mistake you anywhere." The head bowed over her gloved hand, delivering the most tender, most gentlemanly of kisses. "You lit up so many nights on the stage of the Opera; you light up anywhere."

"You're too kind. . ." Leaning to her right: "Raoul, may I have a word with you?"

"In a minute, darling. Perhaps you could honor these fine men, as hostess, with their first dance?"

"I'm flattered, M. le Comte, and I mean no slight to you, my lady, but who might you be?" Bertrand averted from all eyes but hers. By the brazen smile, Avril saw clear his admiration of the dress; even the Russian count showed no shame.

"Danièle Perrin," Avril answered curtly.

"This is my lady's maid, Lt. Boldvieu," added Christine.

"Ah, so it is. . . If I had not seen you first, I might've mistook this one for the soon-to-be Vicomtesse."

Nadir watched and somewhat gratified, witnessed the fleeting displeasure cross her face as the man bent a kiss to her gloved hand. Of course, she still batted eyes and flirted with those devious smiles he knew her for, but it was different. Perhaps, as Erik had guessed, Avril was not the same girl anymore. The eyes darted most suspiciously toward the Russian, keeping him well in sight. There appeared to be no weapons on his person. Although, that could be taken as an assumption. Avril's own feelings attested to his secrets, a dangerous man.

"And who might you be monsieur?" The voice of the Russian startled Nadir from the darkness of thought. This smile did not show teeth, this time. "Or what do they call you back home, as a version for monsieur?"

"I am Persian," evasively replied Nadir.

"A nobleman? Don't recognize you from the Persian consulate or-"

"Perhaps not. I am not a very public figure. The Comte has simply been kind enough to extend me an invitation."

"You must've done him a great service to be thanked this way," retorted Bertrand, looking full into the Persian's face. To the side, throwing a wink to the Russian.

"He has," Christine dared to speak, "in saving our lives."

"Has he, indeed!"

"How exactly, Miss Daaé?" said Vérène, more than eager to test the girl.

"It's a long story," Raoul dismissed.

"I can just imagine," nodded Bertrand. "After all that you both endured at the Opera-"

"What?" Christine blurted.

"Oh that, that," Raoul staggered. "Well, it was, needless to say, very trying-"

"But the papers always make too much of the story than what really happened," said Christine, even shrugging. "All this talk of a madman, kidnapping and murder, some of it is exaggerated. It's a theater, after all. The actors and staff there are more amused by fiction than the realities."

_Oh yes, were you not enthralled when he was the Angel of Music? No more than a voice, _chuckled Avril. A passing waiter tempted with a tray of champagne, her second serving.

"But it's all behind us now," Raoul vouched.

"So if I understand," the Russian spoke up, "this whole party is a sort of premature wedding reception?"

"Suppose you might call it that. We're not staying long after the ceremony."

"And where will the happy couple be going?"

An angry current surged from Nadir's aspect, shooting in the direction of Avril, as if begging for her interception. A couple drops of the gold liquid swirled inside a now empty flute. Fingers tapped randomly along the side, which drew Bertrand's attention as well.

"Well, it's. . . you see a-"

"Why need you explain, M. le Comte?" Avril rebounded, eyeing the too enthusiastic man. "Is it anyone's affair?"

"Just naturally curious," shrugged the Russian. "Does a housemaid have a problem with that?"

"Yes," she affirmed, smiling. "I don't like curious men."

"Raoul, may I speak with you?" Christine tried again.

"In a moment-"

"You do know, mademoiselle," Bertrand's voice turning a little stern, "that you address a man of noble birth and title?"

". . . And?"

"And perhaps, a lowly housemaid ought to have some respect for a foreign ambassador, as well as your master's guest?"

"Are you a guest, _monsieur_?" challenged Avril. Fluttering the eyelashes seemed to be, as if no different, than cocking the trigger. It slowly killed the Russian's forceful smile.

"Well, am I not a guest, by way of extension of Boldvieu's invitation? M. le Comte?"

"I agree," Raoul declared. "Mlle. Perrin, I believe you are out of place-"

"Raoul," Christine hooked onto his arm again. "Now, please?"

Gaspar and Vérène's looks in exchange did not seem to show any pleasure. Even Bertrand, now, began to shift uncomfortably.

"Ah, what is the harm?" shrugged the Russian. "I don't mind it. I like the company of your kind, little spitfires, aren't you?"

Before Avril could even make her answer, which seemed to be boiling at the tip of her tongue, Nadir wisely interfered. The next subject to be taken up:

"Shall you be returning to the stage, Miss Daaé, once you've married?"

"Well, I-"

"I wouldn't deem that likely, or even possible."

"Raoul-"

"Does everyone really believe that?" He looked aghast. "My wife should not have to be made to perform on a stage, especially not as the wife of a nobleman."

"I meant no discourtesy, my boy," mumbled Nadir. A poor excuse of trying to redeem himself, with the poor couple blushing and going mad in the eyes.

"Of course," nodded Avril. Darkly and venomously adding: "She's not a noblewoman, just a wife." The rim of the champagne flute muffled the rest of it, though somehow, effectively reached his ears.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Perrin, did you just say something?" hissed Raoul. His eyes, very much like his brother's used to do, lowered his eyebrows and made his eyes small enough to resemble the barrel of a gun.

"Raoul, please enough," demanded Christine. "Let it go."

"What is that?" The boy ignored her pleas. "Is that an insult to me or your mistress?"

"I think you simply misheard me, M. le Comte," replied Avril. "But it would seem your future wife has something urgent to say to you, and her calls have fallen on a deaf ear. Perhaps you'd like to hear what she has to say first?"

Every man hearing her, at least at that moment, would've practically wished her dead. Even Bertrand, for all his composure, watched her in dreaded wonder, whether an enemy flag was now flying. Christine used her opportunity, dragging him away. Erik and his warning, suddenly, very close to her heart. She seemed to know about him. Avril might've safely assumed so. Those baby blue things like pools now cast waves like a storm's fury, glancing over her shoulder at him.

"_I get the feeling, now, that this will be delicate_," muttered the Russian. Of course, for their own safety, the words were concealed. "_What is the little wench about giving cheek to the Comte_?"

"_I don't know why you're here,_" declared Avril. "_And for your own good, I suggest you keep out my way. You try and corner me in a locked room again, you're going to sleep longer this time._"

"You. . . speak Russian?" Nadir blinked himself out of the stupor. It wasn't going to be easy keeping up the pretense of them being strangers, indeed, if he even desired to, but even if not, he might trust she could look after her own skin.

"_Be careful, pretty one,_" exhaled the Russian. "_I'm only here to help you all. This better not be a trap._"

"Now, now, Kir," Bertrand bade, clearing his throat. "Let's put the past to rest. Shall we? Why not have a look at the table, see what's to be got here?" Walking away, giving a nod to each of them, Avril caught him mouthing a word of warning and a scathing glance with it. Strangely enough, he had turned his back on a fugitive, leaving him and her to their own company. But almost immediately, the Persian lunged for her arm. Sweeping her off a distance to begin a dance, she was at last in the same deadly grip of the night once caught in his bed.

"Alright, _Avril_," he breathed, "what in the world is going on?"

"Please, not here."

"It's here and now. Who is that man? I've never seen him before, but obviously, you both seem to know each other."

"This wasn't in the plans."

"You didn't need to tell me that. I could just see it in your face, which is why I'm worried now. Who is that man?"

"He's just about the same rank as Comte de Chagny is here in France, though not he doesn't quite live up to his noble status."

"How do you to know each other?"

"Please-"

"You will tell me what I want to know, or I'll go to the Comte this minute. Who is he, the count? Some other accomplice of yours?"

"No, as a matter of fact, he was a target," corrected Avril. "But it went wrong. He caught me trying to access a private vault at the palace in St. Petersburg. He closed and locked the door, and I gave him more than a piece of my mind."

"So why would he be here, trying to assist you and Bertrand in this caper?"

"How should I know? Bertrand never mentioned anything about him coming here."

"Is he dangerous?"

"Did I not just answer that?" she retorted. "Of course. He's wealthy, powerful, but he does work for favors too. You owe him, you repay. Or if he owes you, he'll repay too."

"Avril, if you can think of anything, please, anything bad enough to have him arrested right here, right now, please tell me. If you cooperate, and abandon your share in this raid, I'll help put a stop to it, and try to keep you out of it."

"What makes you think I want your help?"

His muscular hands stilled her by the shoulders. "This is a chance. You know you don't want to do it-"

"Don't tell me anything," snapped Avril. "If you want to talk, let's go in the hallway."

"Why not here?"

Cocking her head oddly to the left: "Because it's from my experience, that Chernobog can read lips."

Timely advice, as the Persian looked from the corner of his eye to see the Russian's face following them across the room. Discovered, he pretended to be indifferent. Both dancers ventured down the corridor. Once safe in the open breeze coming from the front corridor, with a view of the ball room and the entrance, he reached desperately, holding her in place by the shoulders and near the neck.

"Believe me, my dear, your dear Bertrand cares nothing for your welfare. He's seen to it, hasn't he? He didn't bail out your sister when you gave him the money to do it; he wanted Estelle to stay there until charged. He's made no arrangements to bring either her or Melicent along when you escape-"

"That's because we can't," she defended. "I will send for them once we're safe and out of harm's way-"

"You think he wants that? You really believe him? Listen, I haven't come alone tonight. Yes, you know who I mean. He may have his own intentions for being here, but I can guarantee, if you are willing to trust yourself in Erik's hands, he will treat you and your family far better than Bertrand ever has, Avril."

". . . I know you mean well."

"That means nothing. What will you do now?"

Spewing fire and sulfur a moment ago, her face now seemed to register spoken words, thought, and all the unsaid things burning in his face. It would cost her nothing, nothing to take him seriously. It would be at a high price to himself, to help her, her sisters. . .

"I'm sorry I've disappointed you, Daroga," she sighed. "I've never known such an honest man. This is not-"

"_What did you just call him_?"

At the sound, his hands fell from her. Avril showed no interest in the young man's reaction. By the inflection of his voice, there was no guessing the feelings. Hairs stood on end and the corridor, occupied by only the three, felt artic. Perhaps he regret having ever took her on, or that he called this man his confidant, or that he ever met Christine again. Grim it was, whatever the realizations were, coming together. The Persian man's deep exhale broke the silence.

"Raoul, my boy, it's not what you think." He attempted to present himself calm.

"No? I can think of only one other person who calls you that."

* * *

As nervous as she always seemed to be made by Erik's presence, watching Raoul leave her side provoked equal feelings. Nothing at all he could help. After all the young man had been put through in the passed four months, his endurance recommended him. For perhaps no lady could have found the closest thing to a modern knight than Raoul de Chagny.

But the ladylove lost interest, or rather, knew a better choice.

Shying from all the relatives and the swarm of friends, Christine retreated to the shadows of the terrace. Here, it was also out of the way of the servants, the silver platters. The music faint to the ears. Perhaps, the most ideal place for two, who wish to be clandestine, to meet together. Erik left no note of when or where. If he did, he'd not be called a phantom. Raoul would catch him all too easily; or that rogue gendarme, all too innocent in his appearance tonight, should gladly take him and make the arrest of his career.

She would have to be satisfied, for the moment, with his promise. After about an hour of festivity, with all the guests having arrived, there shouldn't be much longer to wait. Like last night, the air was balmy; the majority of rain on the ground having dried. The gardens seemed to relish it. Dewy and quenched for thirst, the rose blooms glowed, stealing a little glory from the moonlight. _More than likely he'd hide here. Or else, the woods! We met there once. He will be out of sight, yet not too far for me to come to him. . . No, maybe not. I couldn't simply slip away, not a guest of honor. But he surely would not meet me in the house, in front of so many people._

Patience. Waiting, and waiting, how long she did, swaying upon her heels in the doorway. Raoul did not look for her. Should it have been a sign of distress, there was no way to tell. Dinner had not been announced yet, as the gong had not echoed. All the musicians still played their waltzes. For the longest time, Christine tortured herself until desperate, thought to-

"Miss Daaé!" gasped Avril. "You're here. . . What's wrong?"

"Oh, nothing. You just startled me; beg your pardon," stammered Christine. Her shadow rounding the corner had not done her any service.

"What are you doing all the way over here? People will start looking for you."

"I need your help, Danièle, if you possibly can," she breathed. "I'm trying not to be conspicuous, but I really do want to find Erik. I can't wait too long. I'm hoping I might let Raoul know I'll be going before he calls the company in to dinner. Then, he we may, or at least he may conclude the evening with his good name intact. They will all talk, but at least, they won't be able to say he was abandoned-"

"We'll worry about that soon enough," huffed Avril. "Right now, our mutual friend has sacrificed himself for a few minutes' distraction. Raoul is off, so you'll have a chance to get away before he decides to come looking for you."

"Nothing's the matter, is there? I'd hate to have you get into trouble-"

"Don't worry about me. But I've had it on his authority. . ." swallowing hard, she struggled. "Erik is here, out there."

"All the way out there?" While her maid merely implied the garden, Christine's eyes strained looking out beyond, where no light of the house could reach. No people, and no danger of being disturbed by anyone, except a sleepy cow.

"Well- yes, of course. He said. . . about a quarter after nine."

"After nine? But won't the cook have rung the bell by then?"

"Rather a late dinner, isn't it? I solved it. Since I asked them, in your name, to push back the time to half-past, you'll have fifteen minutes. I suggest you be back in time to be present beforehand-"

"Danièle, you really mustn't go to all this trouble. Honestly, or to be honest, Raoul will know where I've gone. Since that argument you caught us in the middle of the other day, he knows Erik will be here. He told me to make a decision."

"So. . . you're certain?"

"Yes," nodded the girl. "In the long run, it will be for the good of everyone. Even for Raoul."

"I hope the best," Avril said, words overly embellished and painfully forced. "Best be off, while you're still free. Take that path, the one that goes out from the rose archway, out of the garden. It'll be easiest to walk."

"Thank you. . ." She turned back, for she had to, of all things. "Thank you so much, my friend. _For everything_."

_And there she goes. Off with the prize of my career, with the most precious gems of the house, perhaps never to return. I hope so. I hope you get yourself lost out there. I hope there's a really sharp stone on that dark path, and you trip! Trip, soil and tear your dress too! Wait forever and remember him, think of him and how he deserted you! I mean it!_

Forgetting to breathe, the lungs expanded. Air was drawn in, continuing to kindle the lifeblood in her. And once it circulated, bringing oxygen back to the brain, everything cooled.

_Well, maybe not that bad. But I do hope you get lost, so lost you have to be found by your dear boy. Be grateful that you have him. . . Am I really thinking this? I'm sending her out of the way. Am I doing this? Could I possibly? It's so easy. . . What would he say, if he finds out? Not that he has to, of course, maybe making it more fair to both of them. He loves her. And she's decided now, on running away with him._

A sentimental romantic could not ask for a better night. Though she'd never entertained such dreams, it was a night of every girl's fancy. A picturesque night. Full moon. Stars. Secluded lanes in the garden, smelling of heaven. The pattering trickle of water from the fountains. And there, the forbidden couple found sanctuary as they'd rush into each other's arms, kiss after kiss, engagement rings and speeches. . . The whole thing was as sweet as syrup and sugar on a frosted cake, and just as sickening.

It wasn't hers. None of it was hers for the taking. But her feet were moving, and with a definitive stride. Who had stood in her way before now? What did not belong to her that she could not possibly steal for herself? The heart raced frantic, as if beats were missed and the organ was pumping to compensate. Curiosity. . . Wonder. . . Hope. . . Fragments of memories feasted on them, all those nights, the hours spent in his company. And early in the morning, long before the sunrise, these unfamiliar things had teased her, and haunted her since. . . since Erik had looked and leaned in.

_I must know. I think I have to know. How can I walk away never knowing? Was it genuine? Was it curiosity? He doesn't know what Christine will say. Not knowing that she will say yes, how will he. . . What will he say? What will I say?_

Thinking too much, too fast, it nearly turned her stomach nauseous. Navigating the hallways, dreadful. Entering alone, terrifying. . . thrilling! As expected, Avril found herself alone in the solarium. The orchestra still played, but the distance made the instruments faint to the ear. Darting from bush to bush, one cluster of flowers and vines to another, she suspected him anywhere. He was not betrayed by the brilliant radiance of the moon. For the glass paneling all around seemed to capture more of the light. Stark white, the marble of the fountains stood out, both of them singing with water. The nymph statues, at their center, forming a mute chorus.

It would seem shadows could not exist in here. Pink, red, white roses: thriving in every direction. Wisteria and jasmine, merging together like a tapestry, purple and white, covered almost every inch of brick in the wall. Here and there, clinging and huddling alongside the bordering lantern lights: winking iris and the overbearing rhododendron. All year long, these beauties grew, flowered, died, and germinated again, under an eternal spring. So many colors, no shade of black to be found among them, nor the pair of eyes like stars in their glow.

"Erik. . . E-Erik?" Guilty, and already feeling it, her voice did not raise very loud.

It must've been a week ago, though it seemed longer, since he and Christine had been here. All that horrid scarring and years of inhuman treatment and experience expressed. . . The memory was still fresh and alive, shivering. But if given the chance to see it again, up close, for just once, it may not be terrible.

I know what's beneath the mask, but it hasn't stopped me from looking in his eyes, letting him touch me, or hold me. . . It didn't disgust me, never gave it a second thought, when he was leaning in.

"Erik?" Avril called out again, without the courage to go any louder. Perhaps the glass would shatter and the flowers wilt if anyone spoke louder than the splash of the fountain's waters. The Persian had assured her, as it was far away enough, Erik could slip in here without detection. Perhaps he would keep hidden, as Christine was the one. . .

"_What is this_?" his voice met hers, distant but close. Avril recognized his ventriloquism instantly. "_You bring a message or are you intercepting_?"

A guilt-ridden smile sparked in her smirk. "No, Erik," she replied. Not knowing where to face, she spoke to the air in front of her face. "And I have not the least intention. . ."

"_Is Christine unable to come_?"

"No, she should be along soon," fibbed Avril. "I just thought. . ."

"_Thought what_?" he purred.

"Well, thought I might see you once more. . . before you left tonight. . . And to take you up on that dance. . . Well, you don't have to, but I did hope to see you, at least once more."

"_Answer truthfully, Avril_," he challenged, a sinister resonance. "_Is Christine going to come or not?_"

"W-What?"

"_You heard Erik. . . Have you dared to deceive Erik's angel_?"

". . . Did I?" Avril mumbled dumbly. "Well. . . what if I did?"

_"This cannot go on, these deceptions, you foolish girl. Erik will not tolerate it, especially not from you-"_

"Please! I mean. . . Well, so I did. You mean to punish me?" Not smiling proved to be tricky, a strenuous effort. "I might. . . go and fetch her now, if you wish."

"But that is not your desire, is it?"

"No."

"You want to see Erik yourself?"

"I wouldn't call this seeing," retorted Avril. Both arms crossed.

"_Turn around then_."

Over her right eye, the gossamer silk of a veil, with star and moon charms sewn in, resembled a mask. How close it clung and hugged the curve of the right side of the face, ending in a point near her right ear. Every inch of material imitating the glimmer of all such celestial bodies. The color itself, difficult to discern, crossed blue and pearl, even a slight tinge of silver. Though his eyes showed nothing, they sunk lower and lower, taking in her entire slip of a figure.

Is no other girl, besides Christine, beautiful?

"Well?" Avril's throat cleared. Giving up hope on the lengthy silence, that he would speak first, she dared.

**Although I did say before Avril resembles no one, and is not portrayed after an actress or anyone, I did have people in mind. When I think of her personality, her quirks, her short temper, and her rough edge, I picture a combination of Vivien Leigh and Michelle Dockery. Not to say, physically, but from certain roles they've played. . . You might be able to guess;)**

**What do you think? You think Bertrand's turning on her? Or the good Daroga? You think Christine will catch on? I promised no good would come of this. When I said that, I was referring to these upcoming chapters. Everybody is coming to their point of no return.**

**Please review. If you are still reading, Brambled13 (quote/un-quote beta), I hope this turn of events hasn't disappointed. So, you know what Avril's wearing. What do you think Erik is wearing? You might be able to influence my next update: what color could you picture him? Usual black, or branching out? Vote now!**


	26. Chapter Twenty-Five

**Although, I've still stuck to Leroux (for the most part), I pulled a couple little things from Webber's play, and also from Love Never Dies. You brilliant readers will probably pick them out quickly.**

**I did not promise anything, except disaster beyond imagination. But I'll stop that, all the warnings of drama. There's plenty else in store for poor Leroux's characters and my evil, manipulative OCs. To Samantha Michaelis, I award you for My Silhouette story, "Most Faithful Reviewer". To Brambled13, I award you "Best Judge" of this story. And you're right about one thing, it wouldn't be believable (as you said in your recent review.) Hope this meets with your expectation, keeping to his character.**

**If any you guys would like an award, review and watch the updates for your name. If Leroux were alive today, I'm sure we'd see him at the Academy Awards. **

~Chapter Twenty-Five~

"How could you?" growled Raoul. "How could you! Our friend, someone we trusted, you come and bring that fiend into our house. After all that-"

"I do not blame you, Raoul, my boy. You have every right to be upset," admitted the Persian. "But you must understand, I do not keep him."

"Why didn't you tell me weeks ago that he was still alive?"

The Persian's eyes slanted offensively. "Why do you say that? I didn't know I had to report it to you. You mean to say you would've done something about it?"

"If Christine's life is still in danger then-"

"It's been well nearly three weeks since that night at the Opera! He's done nobody harm, or threatened it. Christine is still here with you-"

"What does that mean anymore?" sighed Raoul, exasperated. "She's under my roof, but her soul is still in his hands. He's made love out of her natural pity, and I get the feeling that she's believing she might actually care for him."

"Has she ever said that?"

"What people don't say is sometimes means more than what they do say. And I'm not fool enough to think that I will suit Christine in every way. Maybe I don't. That doesn't mean I'd roll over and submit easily for any other rival. If he were an ordinary man, I wouldn't contest her feelings. I don't trust your friend, M. Khan. He's no good."

Of course, keeping the facts to himself -having invited Erik as a means of settling the score between them- Raoul hardly felt entitled to relate it to him. He'd like to be wronged, although he wiped out all the wrongs beforehand. Erik was coming, he'd expected it, and being invited gave Erik every right to attend. The man could've walked about, danced, dined, and socialized like the rest of his company. Now, it was being regretted every moment.

The Persian's head bowed, guiltily noting the boy - pouring himself a stronger drink from the decanter, hiding in the study, away from the merrier crowd downstairs. A couple of trunks were scooted off to the side of the desk. One had already been filled and locked, while the other, only half-full, was collecting books. Had he stopped packing at some point, more preoccupied entertaining his doubts of there being a honeymoon? Was there any need to prepare staring against the odds?

Christine had been a straightforward child. Her father and guardians taught her well. From good upbringing and religion, she never strayed. Life before the Opera had been sweetly simple. If children of ten and eight were allowed to marry, he'd have gladly asked. She'd have answered yes or no at that moment. Children know exactly what they want. Once older, there's no telling in anybody. Little Lotte wandered away, not wanting to be found. She still thought of everything and nothing; the heart was still kind and treated good and bad all the same, compassionate.

Upon that thought, he couldn't resist curiosity. "So, might I ask, M. Khan, how have you made the acquaintance of Mlle. Perrin?"

"The. . . Christine's lady's maid?"

"Yes?" he nodded. "I am very interested. In front of us, you both act like strangers."

A deep and long breath only added to shame. "That is. . . not really a story I would like to tell. I have my own reasons. I'm not saying I have good reason for keeping secrets."

"Is she a friend of yours?" he asked. "Or a friend of his, Erik?"

"We are not friendly. That's about as much as I may say of Erik as well. We met under rather peculiar circumstances. A-Danièle Perrin tolerates some people; that's how it is with us. But she is, afraid to say, closer to Erik."

"Assumedly!" he retorted. "Who else calls you Daroga but that masked man?"

"Now, this may seem-"

"Oh, you don't have to tell me, as you haven't seen fit to shed light on anything. . . But you say she knows him. That girl. . . knows Erik."

"You wonder why, I presume." Nadir's brow cocked.

"Having said that much, I wonder why she is even here."

"Raoul-"

"Do you know her? I've seen the way she acts, the way she talks to people above her. And to be honest, I don't like how she treats Christine, gives her advice, makes suggestions how to do things, and what-not."

"What do you get at; because, if I understand it, the way you link Erik and this young lady, you suspect something underhanded?"

More sarcastically than beguiled: "Should I?"

Where could he be? The question, the one and only true concern, weighed on the young man's mind, glancing out the window every ten seconds. To the Persian, acting like a man who believed in superstition, evil lurking in any dark place. It wasn't the darkness of the cellars, thanks to the moon. However, the light somehow had a worse effect on him, as the canopies of trees shivered, swept gently over the pastures, trembling the casement curtain.

"What time is it?" said Raoul. Both his gaze and voice still thick in the trance.

"I believe it's past nine, last I saw," shrugged the Persian. Just before swinging the door open, Raoul began following in a mutter, shaking his head.

"Dinner should've been announced by now. Perhaps I'll go find Christine. . . M. Khan, if you would do me a favor, find Mlle. Perrin. And stay close to her tonight."

"I'll do that," he nodded. "And you would do me a favor if you took my advice."

"Advice? What?" The young man halted.

"Raoul," mumbled Nadir, shaking his head, "I'll keep my eye on the maid, if you keep your eye on Lt. Boldvieu."

In the ballroom, the violins grew steadily louder, almost to shrieking on their strings. The flutes and clarinets together, shrill. Soft light burned like torches. Every word and laugh amongst the throng of masked and natural faces echoing, swirling, glowering, smiling in an inhuman race.

* * *

"Well, this is perhaps the first time Erik has seen you in feminine attire."

_That's all? That's as good as I get, feminine? _Insult showed clear in her face, as much as Avril tried to help it. It was a compliment that could've suit her if she'd worn a hideous color, if she'd worn a chemisette girdling the neck, or even if she'd been dripping in diamonds. It had made no difference.

"Beg your pardon, did Erik offend you?"

"No," she lied.

"You pout? You're hurt," he said, smiling. "Ah, Avril. Forgive a poor, old monster-"

"Oh, what do I care?" Withdrawing a couple steps, her mind was already proceeding the instinct her body begged for, to turn and run. "I didn't come to enter a contest. Stop it! I'm not offended, and I won't be, if that's what you're trying to do."

Erik could make no further defense, no answer other than a hearty laugh. "You certainly didn't try, I see," said Erik. Both her hands settled on hips, ready to retreat, with puckered brow and a swollen tooth-marked bottom lip. ". . . Avril?"

"What?" she snapped.

"Did you want Erik to say something else?" he offered, more genuine this time. "Erik told Daroga to tell you so that you would inform Christine that Erik was here. But instead, you come."

"I must be a disappointment then?"

"No."

The violins were the voices of nightingales; the flutes and clarinets harmonizing, in their lower tones, sang like loons. Their sounds, though faint, became soft enough that the instruments themselves were undistinguishable. Standing there, Avril remembered that night at the Opera, down those endless flights of stairs, how the music continued to carry.

Erik stood behind a trellis of the blood red rhododendron while fooling her sense of hearing. Up to this point, the man maintained his elusive position in the gray shadows of the wall, where the lights of the solarium overlooked. Stepping out full into the open, Avril's eyes almost blinked to adjust to the surprise. The white, so pristine, a silvery glow radiated from the jacket. All of it, white! Jacket and pants, both! The absence of the cape was another first. Without it, he was missing something, but Erik had not completely dispensed with black. The silk shirt beneath glistened in its dark shade. A spot of crimson knotted round his neck; the cravat neatly tied and pinned down by a gold pin. The worn leather boots had been replaced with a finer, polished dress shoe. And while Avril had always preferred the white, the black mask wasn't so much frightening anymore as. . .

". . . Not bad at all." Struggling to think of words, and wanting revenge, Avril smilingly settled for that. Lacking in natural comely features, Erik certainly could compensate.

Unhappily ignored, he did not pursue her compliment. "Is anything wrong at the house?"

"Nothing's wrong."

"Then aren't you wasting your time here, with Bertrand and your friends ready to commence with your plans?"

"It can wait," shrugged Avril. "I want my dance first."

"If you believe that wise," he warned.

"Of course it's not, but I want my dance. You promised me."

". . . Erik does not go back on his promises."

Coming from him, one sentence was a mouthful. Whether it implied good or not, she could not guess. People of integrity possess a desirable quality. But if that promise- made to another woman- be unbreakable, was it all a waste of time?

"What's this all about? Really?" he persisted. "What do you want?"

"Can we talk, for a few minutes?" Half a request, something that could be denied and be accepted. The other half, a plea, something that might kill her if denied. Erik saw it as her breath was being held, the eyes flickering round his eyes, bracing herself.

The first two minutes had been a quandary. Erik had merely extend his arm, and it didn't make her shy. On the contrary, the woman stepped forward until she was in position: holding that hand and wrapping an arm round his waist. With that, his hands and strides fell into step with hers. It wasn't the woman who led in a waltz, but in this field, he was no instructor. Every movement calculated and precise. While stiff and heady for a moment, there wasn't a second that passed that he was unaware of her hands. Perhaps they were reaching for a pocket, as one possibility. Body, expression, and air suggested something suspicious churning in her mind.

Nothing occurred of it. And though she got her wish, they were dancing and all was quiet, she wasn't smiling. For once, she wasn't charming. No smile, not even a smirk, curled in that thin lip. Clearly then, and striking him surprised, this dance had not been apart of the initial plan. This had to be an act of disloyalty. . . to her master!

"What is it, then, you wish to say to Erik?" he urged her.

"Nadir is trying to get me to back out of it, still. He's offering, if I renounce my share in the raid tonight, that he'll keep me out of it when he turns them in. I was wondering if, perhaps, that was his idea or yours?"

"You've known all along, Avril, that whatever you do, Erik will not be a hindrance."

"I remember. But you never said either way. You won't stop me, but do wish I'd change my mind?"

". . . Have things gone so wrong with you and the rogue officer?"

"Very wrong. I'm not afraid to admit it anymore. Also, you seemed to know the truth, while I tried to deny it. I don't trust him. Bertrand must be sensing that. He's brought in this friend of his, a man we cried to con in Russia, a count. I wounded this man in more ways than one. I know he's not on my side. And Bertrand knows our history."

"You're scared?"

"Scared? Am I?" repeated Avril. "When your worst enemy knows your weakness, what else do you feel? When someone looks at you, the monster, and knows you're mere man, a mortal being, you feel like. . . like you're not the same person you used to be, like you've lost something of yourself you'll never get back again. They start killing you before you see any weapon."

"It hasn't affect you to that extent, but Erik might agree, something has changed in you. Nothing that you can't fight."

"I'm not asking. . ." Her head shook. "I'm not asking - anybody to fight for me. I'm not a cause worth fighting for, for one, but it would be against everything I am to ask. . . for protection. It's a coward's last resort. Like you, Erik, you always took care of yourself."

"No one offered, no one cared," he corrected, brusquely. "It wasn't a choice. Of course, that's not to say that Erik has survived with no one's help. Daroga takes the same pains with you as he did with Erik. . . It would not be cowardly, should you change your mind and go straight after tonight."

"Would you want me to? You say you don't care what I do, but would. . . you-?"

"Avril," he murmured. The volume, a whisper. "Erik will not stop you, but he would prefer it if you did not."

_But he does not care to try and stop me, _she realized. _Not enough_.

"Though you may not deserve protection," he began again, "Erik would like to offer a proposition, for your sister's care. As you will be leaving, or if you will, Melicent can be taken to the coast. Our friend can escort the both of them, settle with them in a secluded, small house. A doctor will be near should the need arise. Secluded enough, that should you decide to return briefly, to be with her, you won't be running any risk of arrest."

"Oh, Erik, you. . . ? You thought of all. . . You would do it?"

"Whether you go through with tonight or not, the offer stands."

"I-I will repay you!" gasped Avril, breathless. "You'll have double whatever the expenses you have. Just-"

"Erik will take no payment," he growled. Withdrawing from the hold of her arms was a stabbing pain. "Is it always bribes and debts and favors with you-?"

"Please, that's not what I meant! Can't you understand how it feels? You offer this with no reward?"

"It surprises you that there are some like that still existing on this earth," he jeered.

"But what about-"

"If you must know," he interrupted. Had he any eyebrows grown, they'd have been arched high on his forehead. "And I'll have you know. The house in mind is the same cottage where Christine and her father stayed many years ago, within walking distance of the beach, over up in Perros-Guirec. It had been going to wreck and ruin for many years, until recently. Erik gave orders and had it remodeled so it's presentable. It's a refuge, for you and your family if you care to take it. It was to be all to ourselves. . . if Christine. . ."

"Oh. . ." The words were the sound of shattering glass. Kindness. . . Pity. . . That's all it had been, no more than that. Urges to scream and to cry warred within until Avril resigned undecidedly to the silence.

"Where are you going?"

"Forget it!" cried she. "You can do what you like, but I'm not impressed with your pity-"

_What else did I come here for! _The voices inside were harrowing.

"Don't go!" Unbelievably, he cried out. It all but froze her body to the stone walk. "Avril! You know, Erik! And Erik knows pity; for you and he share the same contempt of it. You ask what he wants in return. Well, I'll be honest. Erik would rather not leave tonight, knowing your life is made miserable by a choice that wasn't yours!"

". . ."

"Is it hard to believe? Erik wants you to be happy. It can't be losing Melicent, coping with that rat Estelle, and Bertrand keeping you. You may not be content with your lot, but at least, you would be your own mistress."

How stubbornly her face kept away from his, and it stayed turned until a bit of composure returned. "You're the first man, including Bertrand and my own father, who's ever cared about, well. . . me being happy."

"Doesn't a man who asks to marry you care something about that?" he pondered. The revelation didn't seem new, or shocking. Merely saddening.

"It's different," shrugged Avril. "Don't know how. It would please him, and if I happen to love him, that's just a benefit of the arrangement."

"Avril. . ." Lately, after it had become a habit to use her name, it grew more fond to the mind, to the lips. Long ago, it had been mademoiselle, or worse. Until now, he never realized the sound of her own name held power. Many times had she been bruised and soothed by him, reproved, and comforted. The look coming from her eye, now, was wide and full. "You look beautiful tonight," he uttered deeply, like a secret.

"You didn't have to say that," breathed Avril. _It's not the first time I've been told that, and he's not the first to say. But he says it the best!_

Seizing control of the tide, Erik diverted again. "So, if Bertrand will not be your happiness, what will then?" he asked. "Shall you take up a dwelling of your own, surrounded by a lake in a hole underground?"

Avril's lip quirked, feeling teased. "Can't say that's changed. Of course, when I find a man and love him, there won't be any kidnapping involved."

"Erik recalls a time," he replied, advancing, "that you said you choose not to love."

"I think I lied when I said that."

"Wouldn't be surprised. You can fool anybody, why not yourself?"

"Erik," Avril blushed.

"So, is that hypothetical or does Bertrand have a rival?"

_Can he hear a heartbeat? or feel it? Did he feel it as we danced?_ A cool night and temperate room grew humid in a matter of minutes, as the solarium was neither indoors or out. Her gaze tore from the mask, and the golden eyes within them.

"No. . . and yes."

Silence, for thirty, forty seconds, no reply. "Erik is not curious, be assured," he declared. "He's just waiting to see if the secret will kill you first."

"I can't say," she answered truthfully. "That is, if there is a rival."

Avril walked round to the opposite side of the fountain, near another trellis. This one made all of jasmine, interweaving the woodwork, developing so thick the holes in between were no longer visible. They were blocked from any prying eye, if there was one, spying by the door.

"One thing, for sure, he's the very opposite of him in every way," began Avril. "He's. . . well, he's a. . . a great man. He's conceited, but with every right to be. Devilishly clever, as good as any thief and con there ever was, but he has no need for stealing anything from anybody. Why would he, when he acquires everything by his own talent?"

Erik caught his own lie, when he said he'd not been curious. And the curiosity plaguing him now felt fatal. "Talented?" he mumbled. His eyes were fixed on her, while hers grew more and more shy.

"He has more in his little finger than most men have in their whole body."

". . . And what is he like?"

"There are plenty good qualities, although some might call him a bit. . . short-tempered. Bertrand is cool and calm all the time, and keeps his head on so tight, I can't stand it."

"Sounds like a loose cannon," he mocked.

"Loose, loaded, and lit," nodded Avril. "But despite all that, he's all velvet on the interior. It's warm and. . . the safest place one can be."

"Better not be a Don Juan, as he holds a heart like yours. . . Must be handsome."

". . . Yes," she replied, sidelong in the eye. "Yes, he is, very handsome. But even if he weren't," she swallowed, "that voice is a force of nature. You ought to hear him sing."

"He sings, does he?" The world was shrinking in, and the air thinning about them. It wasn't only affecting her now. With a tinge of jealousy: "But many men sing-"

"Not like him. And most men depend on the genius of other composers for their lyrics. He does not."

"A composer too, of what exactly? Sonatas, symphonies?"

"No. . . _He is a symphony_." The words on her lips trembled, ever so slightly. "I. . ."

"As he sounds exceptional, why is it you're still clinging to another worthless man and his worthless dreams?"

If she could walk through time, from former days to see herself now, that former self would shoot her. And that moment, there was this insane impulse to do just that! Looking up at this masked criminal, hideous beneath it, looking into his eyes like a little girl making a wish. Was it worth it all? One moment worth a lifetime of reminiscences and a thousand 'what might have been' bitter musings? No.

"Actually. . . He has no idea that I. . ."

His reply chilled her through bone, unlike any threat made under his breath. "_I think you're wrong_."

At last, courage leveled her head, bringing their eyes together once again. Her neck had to slant back, as his face was now above hers. The distance between each other now only inches. A Punjab lasso wrapped round her throat, pulling taunt, and beginning to strangle. This one couldn't be fought. Escape impossible, as it was invisible.

No woman could have chosen better words, but it didn't capture him. She'd become her own victim. The world would not come between a man and woman, not with their proximity. Erik waited, to her own torment, savoring the low quivering eyelashes. Those eyes weakening beneath his scalding stare. The first, if that one could be counted, had been bold as brass. The second, what may have almost been one, hardly touched, shying away. The third. . . it didn't even reach his face. Either it was the height, or else, she gave way cowardly.

As Avril had started to lean back away, beyond humiliation, seeing he did not lean in this time, his arms caught her off guard. Mistaking her motive, Erik's grip felt angry. His embrace held, or rather, crushed. No thoughts of 'It's wrong!' 'Not with my face. . .' 'Tainting, and too ugly to kiss a woman!' 'Not even my own mother. . .' entering, as they would with Christine in sight. Her lips were brought to his with full force. A gasp issued from her lungs, stolen by his own.

Like flame to gunpowder. When Erik expected a fight, with full-fledged fists and shrill screaming, he only met with reception. Two hands found a hard, fast grip, one hooking on the back of his neck, the other digging into the right shoulder. Letting go of her waist, where he'd primarily caught her, he suddenly preferred her head within his palms and his fingers lacing beneath her hair. Of course, he couldn't help return her painful embrace. An arm returned to her waist, circling round the back.

It was eccentric, to say the least. And the mask did not make a kiss as pleasant as would be hoped for, shifting upward awkwardly and rubbing against the flesh between her nose and upper lip. Once or twice, it pinched and dug in. Odd, irritating. . . and euphoric. An abrasive duet, just as they always. No different.

_You fool, what have you done? What have you done! _His body froze, tensing abruptly. Though he pulled away, her kiss was still with him, in his mind, in his blood, coursing his veins. No hope of ever extricating them of her memory.

"E-Erik?" Avril panted. She more so than he, but both left reeling. "W-What's wrong?"

". . ."

"No. . ." Her head began to shake. "Oh no, please - Erik!"

The way he could vanish, and so quickly, she ran toward the other end of the solarium. All effort to reclaim him in vain.

_Christine. . . Christine. . . The bane of my existence! Why can't you admit it, you spineless little coward. I know you don't love him! You don't love him! _

_But of course: 'Erik does not go back on his promises.'_

_Christine. . . Christine. . . Always Christine!_

**I expect tomatoes, and probably deserved. But if I get 5 or more reviews on this chapter, I'll promise a fast update.**


	27. Chapter Twenty-Six

**You guys are the best! The best! Your response to 25 was actually rare for me. I just barely get 4 reviews a chapter with usual updates. *Happy dance!* And about 3 of you reviewing quoted the last line: a Love Never Dies line. Sorry, I gave you the idea I was going to do THAT. And a certain one, Oliver, did not like Avril's honest opinion of Christine. I didn't call her spineless, Avril did, don't look at me. Avril may be out of line to think that, but I personally won't take sides with reviewers one way or another about Christine. I'm both an E/C & E/OC shipper in the Phantom genre.**

**Now. . . Well, now. . . I don't have any words for an introduction. You'll see.**

~Chapter Twenty-Six~

The Persian seemed nowhere to be found, but it did not drive Erik to seek him out in the lights of the ballroom or the grand hall. The music had stopped by now. All guests ceased their mingling and dancing for a time, called away by dinner, leaving the deserted rooms eerily quiet. Thankfully, there was no one. Heart and mind was such a tumult that Erik couldn't walk as quiet, sneak by the doorways as quickly. The little thief had robbed him all strength and invisibility temporarily. Each step like walking on a cloud, but storm clouds, rumbling and shaking to the core.

By the time the two men ran into each other, Erik frightened him by the half-sane glow about the eyes. The nearest room to give them refuge happened to be one the salon, which housed the piano forte of the house. Sensations burning within his fingers yearned to unleash upon the ivory and ebony, but he controlled them. Nadir slid the two doors closed. As no candles burned and no one had lit the gaslights, Erik withdrew to the darkest corner.

"Have you talked to her? What did she say?" demanded the Persian.

No answer was offered. It must not have gone well, seeing Erik's shadow start to double forward with a hand bracing against the wall. Difficult to say for Nadir what he feared worst from Erik: a fit of rage or a fit of sickness. His tall, lean body still racked with panting.

"Erik? You alright?"

"Where is Christine?" puffed Erik. "Where. . . Daroga? Have you seen her?"

"What? You haven't- I was sure you'd seen her by now."

"It didn't turn out that way, apparently. . ."

"Erik, can I bring you a chair? A few minutes sitting down will do you good-"

"There's no time, Daroga. . . No time. . ."

"Well, where would she be then? I know she left the group to find you, and I told Avril-"

"Yes," he laughed dryly. Raising himself again to his full height, steadying a little, he faced the older man with the most outlandish sort of look, perhaps having lost a piece of his mind and more. "Yes. That was your mistake, Daroga."

"Mistake?" he swallowed. "Erik, what happened? Who-"

"Avril."

"W-What about her?"

"She came in Christine's stead. . . to see Erik herself. . ." The old habit of pacing was taken to once again. "She came to see Erik. . . We were alone. . . just as she wished it. . . as she had intended. . . Oh, she is a. . . clever. . . most fascinating character. Erik knew it all along. Now it all makes sense. . ."

"Are you mad? Erik, I can understand you when you blather and mumble to yourself this way!" raved his friend. "You will tell me what on earth is going on? Did you see Christine or Avril?"

"Christine? Did you think I was speaking of Christine?" he shrugged simply.

"Just a minute ago, you were asking about where Christine-"

"Daroga. . . Nadir, I need to see Christine," sighed Erik. "If Erik is right, and almost very certain, Christine is going to say yes and expect to leave."

"And you-"

"You must find her. If you're a friend of Erik, you must find her, and tell her she will make a terrible mistake if she chooses me. . . No, I must tell her. Only Erik can tell her."

"Mistake? Erik, stop a minute, stop!" Grasping hold both of the man's forearms, looking up to him with pleading. "Erik, do you mean it? You mean to let Christine go?"

"Yes!"

". . ."

"Well, what's the matter? Be pleased, be delighted, my good friend." Shaking from the hands of his friend, he faced one of the drawn open windows. "You won't have any more trouble about it, and I daresay, the boy will be thrilled to hear it too. No longer will they be haunted by a poor, unhappy Erik, threatening, following, watching, looming never again."

". . . You said you saw Avril." No reply. "Erik? Oh no, don't tell me. . ."

"She said she wanted to dance. . . which wasn't true, not really." A hard swallow followed. "Nadir, Christine never. . . danced with me. She rarely smiled at me, when I hoped she would learn to eventually. . . She never laughed with me. . . Never even raised her voice to me; oh, she would protest, but there was no fight. . . None Daroga. . . And she never. . . never that. . . All she would do is lean forward, and let Erik kiss her forehead. . . Of course, she did kiss me once, in just the same way. It was sweet of her. She is a good girl. Erik would've died a happy man with a few sweet memories. . . I. . . I came to your flat that night. . . to say goodbye."

"That night. . . ?"

"That same night we found Avril hiding in your bed. . . Yes, one last farewell, and it would've been the end of all misery. Death felt near, and Erik would've welcomed it. . . Then Avril. . . Avril. . . She never looked at Erik with any fear." His friend uttered some words of shock in his mother tongue. "Quite the contrary. . . It must've been that evening we followed her into her mother's house, and heard her play the piano."

Evoked by the memory, his own eyes drifted again to the instrument. There had been a single candle lit on its top, burning still and peaceful on the wick. No music laid out. Her silhouette all squared about the shoulders, perfect in posture, and wild hair hanging free. Erik lowered a hand, ungloved and chilled, against a chord without playing it. They were the chords Avril had been playing, though she started out all wrong. It needed correcting at the time.

"What exactly?"

"It was nothing at the time," Erik's litany resumed. "For a time, she was nothing. . . of course, nothing but trouble, vexation. But she seemed to always have a look in her eye. Erik would walk away, and she'd be watching him go. She would be about to say something, then change her mind. . . or else lie. Erik did not believe it, never at all possible that. . . Maybe. . . But no, she has never been so honest as she was five minutes ago. . . Clinging to Erik, blushing, simpering. . . all because she wanted to talk to Erik. . ."

The throat had all but parched. "Are. . . are you sure?" asked Nadir.

". . ."

"Did she say she cared for you, Erik?"

". . . No."

"No?"

"No, but she did not have to say it. . ." A hand raked across his head, through both the false and the real hair over it. That rapid, irregular pulse coming from the heart began again, when he'd just caught his breath. A sweat building behind his mask; how fortunate the thing hadn't slipped in the midst of it all, as her lips could not put up with any boundary between his.

"Did she say she loved you?"

"Is it so impossible, Daroga?" snarled Erik.

Not a question that had been answered yet. "Can you blame me for worrying? I don't want to see you shot through the heart by another failed expectation," he answered sincerely. "Erik, did she say she loved you?"

"In her own way. . ."

"Really?" Were the Persian's skin a tinge lighter, the rush of heat to his face could've been seen. "Did she, really?"

"Can't say whether Erik scared her more than he did himself," he admitted bashfully. "But she did not scream. She didn't struggle. It didn't kill her. . . Maybe she did not say it, but it was just as good as if had, Daroga."

"If that is the case, I hope she realizes what she implied then."

". . . I should've preferred, after seeing her that night, to have never seen her again. Now, I can't see my life another day without her. . ."

"No, Erik-"

"Don't presume to tell Erik any different!" he snapped, whipping around.

"Not this way, Erik," insisted the Persian, head shaking. "You can't assume anything, especially not with her. I'm not saying this to protect her, but to protect you. She has a good heart, but she is, all considering, a thief. . . A con artist, a liar. . . and selfish-"

"_I love her, Daroga_," sighed Erik. Confession shivered him.

"In spite of everything?"

With a weak nod: "Yes."

"You believe so? Does she love you or are you her opportunity to escape Bertrand? I get the feeling she's not on good terms with him anymore. It's not impossible, you know."

"If that is the case, then it's too late for her," nodded Erik, a smile slowly returning. "It's too late if she changes her mind. She'll have no say in the matter."

"Oh no, don't-"

"Do not fret so, my friend. Things will be different this time. The matter's between Avril and Erik. The grasshopper will not hop. No catastrophes of any kind."

"Heaven help the poor girl then," retorted Nadir. "I was hoping that with time you'd recover your senses. You've progressed enough, I was beginning to think you more sane."

"If you wish me to continue sane, Daroga, do me this favor. Erik cannot wait. Find Christine, make my excuses and give her every apology. Erik will write her, or see her again another time, if it will please her. Give her Erik's blessing on her marriage, or if not, whatever she does with her life." With several long strides, he was at the door, ready to fling it back. Locked and chained, the doors would be destroyed by bare hands, quivering the very pillars of the château like the might of Sampson.

His mouth opened, stumbling helpless, but the man had already traversed half the length of the corridor. "At least, ask her first! Erik!" Desperate words on deaf ears. "_Foolish, little coquette, you better say yes_," muttered he.

_The nerve of him, and tell me to be relieved! All that I endured at the Opera, in the cellars, risking my neck, snatching the boy and his sweetheart from Death, and it was for nothing now I did it! He better be glad I don't have a lasso for my own disposal!_

Too enraged, he'd not realized for several minutes, giving pause, that he'd got his wish. Stealing away with Avril removed her from danger, whatever that might befall her or any that she would cause. He was free now. The truth could be out now! All those who rightly deserved it, now, he was free to expose. The Comte was safe, Christine, the guests, everyone! Enlivened, he hurried towards the dining hall.

His footsteps echoed across the marble. The Persian's feet were now the only ones that could be heard. Everyone had gone to eat. A late hour to dine, but in view of the long night, and everyone staying up for it, it wouldn't be any less grand. But strangely, not even a single servant could be seen, in the ballroom, in the foyer. Every light still kindled for them, wasted on vacancy. There should've been noise, some sounds of gaiety ringing from the long tables.

No life to be seen. No sound to be heard. But a cold current breezed through, coming from the back of the house. Nadir felt it from the grand foyer. The front entrance had been closed over an hour ago. Gentle chiming moved through the chandelier. Just on instinct, even without reason, he leapt clear of it. Must've been that the breeze outside was turning into gusts. There was no other way to explain it, unless someone opened the doors out to the terrace.

As suspected, they were wide open. Their attached curtains thrashing violently.

"Raoul!" cried Nadir. Only his echo answered back. Turning back around, he repeated his call and echo into the house. Ripping the black cloth mask from his face, sweating fierce, he thought of perhaps calling to Christine, then decided against drawing her attention to a scene of trouble. "Hello! Anybody!"

Fifteen years dissolved, and the former chief of police of Persia revived from retirement. Armed or unarmed, they had to be faced. Venturing nearer, the dead silence indicated the whole situation. Someone had heard him yelling, and his approaching the doors. Instantly, the door swung open. The swaggering Russian, gleaming in red like an enemy flag, brazenly met him in the hallway. His lips shaped smoothly in a smile, baring no teeth. Those eyes, brimming from amusement. A crystal goblet of red wine in one hand. A pistol poised lazily in the other.

"Late for dinner," he said. "Care to join us, good man?"

"Have you hurt anyone?" the Persian calmly replied.

"Not yet, and we have no intention to, so long as everyone is submissive. Have a seat, hand over any purse or valuables on you, and no more yelling." The firearm gestured hospitably.

* * *

She was upstairs in the proximity of the south wing. Out of all light and in the shadows, her gown did not radiate as it had in the solarium. Without it, the sparkle and charms in the veil draped over her right side was dull. Still, untrained to hear his silent approach, Erik's clearing throat caused a start, and a momentary panic as she turned. All the dread of this evening, of that meeting meant to be kept with Christine, surfaced setting his eyes to her face. She stood a few feet away, less than three feet. The very temptation, to kiss her again!

"What are you doing here?" she started on him. Her voice holding offense.

"Erik didn't mean to leave you like he did, Avril. Although, I believe that was partly your own fault."

"Oh, that?" she shrugged. "About that-"

"Look, there's no point to this raid, not for you. That much is understood." For it felt a race horse were locked in his chest. "You said before there was no choice for you."

"Erik, I-"

Interrupting her, his hands, his fierce hands, grabbed hold of her by the shoulders. "Well, Erik has come to tell you, Avril, that you have a choice. You can leave this house tonight without a second thought. Your life can be new. You need never steal anything again."

"This isn't the time to talk about that," she snapped. Then mockingly added: "And why would anybody want to tag along under the protection of an eloping couple?"

"You won't tag along," he replied, trembling, "you'd be with Erik. It would just be us, my dear. . . This may come as some surprise, but Erik knew your jealousy. He simply didn't believe it, instead waiting for you. Maybe it would torture you into a real confession-"

"Erik!" she gasped.

"It may not seem like much of a promise, as Erik is not a generous man. Perhaps you fear him, but Erik wants you to be happy. He would like to make you happy. Just take his word for it, and I promise, you may be very happy. You might like it very well with him. . . Just come with me, Avril. . . _Just come_. . ."

Her body was rigid, not swaying toward him, hearing nothing he said. Nor did she appear to feel it. "I warned you once, that should've been enough," she replied icily. Pulling from his hands made her look disgusted. "I choose not to love. This is unfortunate."

". . ."

"I am sorry, though I can't say I'm sympathetic. Men," her head shook, "why is you always fall for the adventuress and cannot be content with the sweet belles and fair damsels? We're a heartless breed, Erik. Did you not know that all along? Was I that enchanting?"

Before the pain, as goes with most fatal wounds, there is shock first. What scarce coloring there was in his face left; the air to speak even scarcer. "I. . . don't understand."

And she chuckled. Scoffed! "What's to understand? We had a bargain; we each did our parts. We've got what we wanted. We're halfway done tonight. Chernobog and Vérène are entertaining the Comte's guests in the dining hall now. Gaspar and my dear Bertrand are in Philippe's old chambers now, taking account of the vault. . . And I've been holding onto a little secret. Thought it might be better to be surprised, but Christine told me, with absolute confidence, that she is going to break her engagement with the Comte and simply cannot live without you."

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, it was being registered, and disbelief, gradually giving way to an untamable, boiling wrath. His chest was swelling again, filling with shallow intakes of breath.

"Where was that kiss in the bargain?" he hissed. "What was the point of it?"

"I beg your pardon. I didn't scheme for your heart. Ugh, the very thought! Did you honestly believe that? I know about you, the Phantom of the Opera, with your death's head, with a face some have called the Living Corpse. What is there to love?"

". . ."

"It's amazing that Christine can stomach the sight of you, let alone consent to the slavery of being your wife."

"What is amazing is that you're still standing here conscious with a breath in your body," he whispered, trembling once more.

"It's nothing personal. I didn't single you out like I've had to do with other men abroad, when it came to raids and all that. But you see, you were a distraction. Actually, you were endangering our whole operation, you and your friend: following me, checking up, questioning Bertrand. What else was I supposed to do? He was threatening to break things up by going to the Comte. Thought if he at least learned to like a poor, helpless girl, even feel a little sorry for me, that would be enough. And as you are rather protective with Christine's life and health, you wouldn't stand for someone like me causing her the least distress. . . What can I say? It was, well, as you might guess, a means to an end."

Her back came crashing against the wall, even banging against the back of her head slightly. The ever familiar hand, a grizzly's paw in kid leather, charged for her throat. Tight enough to make screaming impossible, but it did not close in a death grip.

"Just like that?" taunted Erik, blaze in the slit-narrow eyes. "You think you can walk away from Erik, simple as that?"

"It's never simple."

With a deep inhale: "No, it isn't. There's no bargain anymore," he purred. "There's no reason now for Erik to be merciful. But I will be. . . I will do you as you don't deserve. You expect some madman to strangle you now in cold blood. Why don't you, you ask? Why? Because a cold heart does not deserve death. You deserve misery. . . a long life of it. Hope one day all that drivel about Bertrand, your 'cruel' and hateful master, will come true and he'll show his true nature. _Learn the pain of betrayal_," he growled, "to be played, to be reigned, and find out how little you mean to that sorry excuse of a man. . . _And will you be capable of the same mercy_?"

His fingers relaxed, dropping his hand away. Avril's windpipe throbbed and pulsed rapidly, recovering lost breath and relieving her stagnated throat. "I never called you a beast," she conceded. "But that was pretty beastly." At least, some respect for her own life had humbled her some. "I'm sorry it's ended this way."

"Save your breath. You listen because Erik's only saying it once. You leave tonight. Have your way with the jewels, do what you please. Then go. You and your friends, you better be out of Paris and fleeing the country. If ever you cross paths with Erik again-"

"Well, you may save your breath. I get your drift," nodded Avril. "All the very best to you, Erik, even if you don't wish me the same. . ." While still free, her steps quickened, leaving no chance of him changing his mind. "At least," she rejoined, "now you've had some _practice _making a marriage proposal. You'll be ready now, in case Christine refuses again."

Somewhere, here in this house, that very girl waited and hoped for him to come. If it were the truth, he'd won his share in the bargain. Somewhere, his angel called and pined for him, like she did within the walls of the Opera House. No one would take her away again. A consolation prize tossed at his feet like a child in the street thrown a coin.

Until she disappeared round the corner, he waited before heading back towards the stairs. Stairs her feet would've never touched. Given one word of consent, she'd have been taken up in arms. Erik could see it, carrying her out of the house, raising his voice in a loud shout of thanks to his good host for the invitation. Shock every single one of the guests. He would see Bertrand in the distance, too stunned to react but seething. And Avril, laughing.

The hallway before him now swayed and bowed, as if his eyesight were dissolving. Blinking only worsened the effect. Once down the main staircase, safely hidden from crossing paths with any of her comrades, the wall supported him when his legs hadn't the sufficient strength. A terrible throbbing from within his chest made breathing a labor. The mask was slipping now. With both the contortion of his face beneath, and the tears building and running, keeping it in place was a cause lost. Removing the leather cover, a hand raised to cover the horrific absence of a nose, splaying fingers across his forehead. Erik's moans and sobs were silent. Even if not, no one would've cared now.

* * *

Poor kitchen maids sweat profusely, gathering pails and bowels of water as quickly as they could manage. Footmen shed their livery coats in attempt to beat out the flames spreading ravenously over the stone, around each of the windows, and flames starting to catch on the island table. Women panic-stricken just beyond its doors smelled the smoke, bringing several to faint. And to taunt further, the Russian, bearing a cooking pan, threw some kitchen grease across the tapestries. A pungent aroma of fish assaulted every nostril. Then, using one of the candelabras from the table, he bent the flames to get a taste of the oil.

More feminine cries went up as the serene flames took to the velvet. Handkerchiefs came out to cover mouths from the choke of the smoke. Their captors seemed immune to it. Cherbourg's smile did not wane, though his patience was gone. Vérène cast little nods and mumbled incoherent things, with her own firearm still patrolling the hostages.

"I'm not pulling your leg, little Comte," drawled the Russian.

"I am not lying!" cried Raoul. Breaking orders, his chair careened back and thud against the wall. "I don't have it! You think I'd put the lives of these people at risk because of it!"

"Don't be a hero, boy, and sit down!" bellowed the older woman. "If you don't have it, where would it be?"

"It must be upstairs in my apartments somewhere," said Raoul.

"We've already checked, M. le Comte," sneered Cherbourg. "There's no sign of a key there. Better start thinking faster if you want these good people to leave unsinged."

A younger woman shrieked, getting his attention. By the similarity of appearance, it must've been a sister or a cousin. "What about Philippe?" she asked. "Would he have kept the key somewhere, you think?" An older woman, presumably her guardian, seconded the notion.

"Who is this Philippe?" wondered Cherbourg.

"The late Comte," answered Vérène. "His older brother."

"It's possible," said Raoul.

"Possible?" echoed the Russian, irritated.

"Well, he had held the keys before I did, and the family vault is connected to his apartments. Just let them all go, monsieur, and I'll do whatever you want. You may keep me as a hostage-"

"What good are you to us if there's no key, stupid boy?"

"What should we do? We're running out of time," noted Vérène.

"Bertrand will settle this. You, come with us." Curling the finger, he beckoned the young man to follow. It only roused his guests the more, being forced to leave them behind.

"No! What are you doing?" Raoul's voice rang shrill with the closing of the door. "You can't keep them in there! Let them out! At least, untie them!"

"That's not our problem," shrugged Vérène. Second in importance to the vault key, they held possession of the housekeeper's ring with every other key.

No help to be expected, even the servant's quarters had been locked, all gathered for their personal dinner. Everyone else, men and women, were confined to their chairs by the chords cut from the curtains. When they'd been used up, Vérène and the Russian count improvised with several of the men's belts and jackets. Knotting the sleeves in round back behind the chair, though unable to hold them forever, would hold them long enough. Potentially noisy and hysterical persons were bound by a napkin at their mouths. All cutlery, essentially the knives, were out of reach. Nadir attempted it, pushing his chair out, and swinging a leg up to the table's surface. Without being able to slide low, there was little leverage in his lower body. Others fought with the restraints at their shoulders, to lean toward the table.

Smoke thickened with the growing body of flames. If lack of air was not enough of an obstacle for them, the nocuous fumes entered the eyes with burning. His body twist and wrenched, now ambitious in his fight. Side to side, and tilting all the way back, Nadir tried squeezing his head through his jacket, a crimson noose. An effort sapping more energy, and suffocating as well.

During this span of time, a time he'd struggled to calculate, smashing glass set off another wave of panic through the ladies. A strong gust of wind flooded through. Men raised their voices, calling for aid, for the safety of their women. Nadir was the first to be aided. The choking collar about him, undone. The belt and cloth napkin, each binding a hand, came loose.

"Wha- Erik! You're still here!" gasped Nadir.

The man did not bother with words. Movement had been fast enough to blur, and in the smoke, Erik moved with all the speed and agility as he'd come to be known for as the Phantom, even the Trapdoor Lover. He only unbound Nadir, and a man beside him. A curt command issued with it, as he expected the one man alone to set about freeing all the rest of the company. Logically, one would free another, and the two would free two more, and then the rest. Following after Erik, they did not reconvene until down the corridor, heading south for the grand foyer.

"Where is the boy?" demanded Erik.

"I don't know. They took off and left the room about ten minutes ago, I think. Erik, what's going on? They can't find the key to the vault."

"De Chagny hasn't a brain enough to remember where he laid the key to his family's collection!" raved Erik.

"Wait a minute! I thought Avril had it, Erik. Where is she?"

"Never mind her! They probably still have the boy held up somewhere, and Christine is still nowhere to be seen."

"Not good!" decried Nadir. "Well, where is the vault, at least?"

"His brother's room."

A remorseful retracing of steps. It was the only way he knew the location of the vault. Had there been some sense in her, as he'd underestimated, Avril would've returned the key to its place. It would've been one of the Comte's coat pockets. And yet, anarchy. Something had gone wrong enough to make them all rash. What he would do coming face to face with _her _again, he loathed to think, feared to imagine.

Each door had been locked. Grunts and livid groans emanated from within; someone was restrained. Alive, at the very least.

"Raoul!" shouted Nadir. A fist banged against the door. "Raoul, you in there! Christine!"

"Back up." The command more physical than verbal, as Erik pushed his friend aside to try the unyielding handle. Instead of kicking at the door, or shunting it, he knew another way Erik preferred. Few men were capable of the muscle as well as force. Positioned just so, throwing his weight accurately, the handle jerked upward. Broken and loose, but also doing so, cracked the wood to the center. A little jiggling with the handle and rattling the door, it opened with no more protest.

The young man lay on the floor near the foot of the bed. Another curtain chord tied both feet and wrapped in an expert note on one of the bed's legs. More chord wrapped his wrists behind his back. Someone had pulled one of the slip covers from a chair, binding him round the head, taunt against his lips. Satisfied, he'd been left alone.

While not directed at them, a hateful, vile glower made Raoul look crazed in his eyes. Nadir rushed on the boy, freeing him from the gag first. Checking the inside of the closet, Erik confirmed for certain that they'd not broken through.

A thwarted, animal-like growl stemmed from Raoul's rasping throat.

"She trusted you!" he howled. "What good are you to her, if you stalk her but can't keep her safe, monster!"

"No." An involuntary expel of air from Nadir. "Raoul. . . Christine?"

"They couldn't find the key. It was in my closet last I had it, and it wasn't there," he explained hurriedly. Next to be unraveled were his hands. "They didn't believe any of it. So they took her!"

From boiling to instantly cold, Erik turned, sickened at the inflection of horror in the boy's eyes. After taking painstaking minutes to get his breath back and will back any further tears, the air left him again. _What have you done? What have you done to her! Why you, Avril, WHY!_

"T-they took. . . Christine?" stammered Erik.

"What are their demands?" questioned Nadir. "Come, boy! What do they demand? How much?"

"T-they just. . ." Raoul's tongue thickened. "They want everything from my family's collection. C-Christine was wearing a. . . a parure with diamond and sapphire in it. They wanted that, but they want everything o-out of there. . . Boldvieu said they'd b-be in touch, to negotiate the exchange. I don't know where-"

"Should've known!" groaned Nadir, loudly. "Ransom!"

"They said I have ten days. . . or else, she's dead."

**Honestly, I love writing arguments in my stories. I especially like riling Erik into a temper. . . but not this. I didn't see this coming far in advance, but I took to the idea. I think this is the coldest argument between a couple in anything, my own or fanfiction, that I've ever written. 'Poor Erik. . .'**

**Don't blame you if you're mad. But if you're still willing, give me a chance, 5 reviews will bring another quick update.**


	28. Chapter Twenty-Seven

**You've come back! Thank you.**

**Loved all your reviews, and the mixed reactions were somewhat expected. Hugabouv went so far as to hope Avril will get it in the end. (I can tell you're an E/C shipper). Samantha, your reaction I think surprised me most. I'm glad that everyone found it unexpected, though I'm sorry it hurt, readers and characters too. I hope you will continue to be honest and entertained, and I'll try not to make you wait for long for the next updates.**

~Chapter Twenty-Seven~

Everyone's throat smoldered with each swallow of brandy. No one's more so than Erik's. A pitying friend over one shoulder, and bitterest enemy on the other side had not been the ideal situation he'd anticipated of this long evening. A long road stretched before all three. Raoul perhaps was privileged with the longest one. Once again, beloved childhood sweetheart and fiancée had been abducted. Multiple fires ravished nearly the whole northeast side of the house, including the kitchens, dining hall, several of the servant's quarters, a couple guest rooms, and some damage to Christine's chambers. All staff, guests, and family members escaped that incident at dinner alive, though bearing minor injuries: cuts got from jumping out the window, twisted ankles from landing, and ghastly headaches from the fainted women. An hour transpired before the gendarmes from the city, as well as the fire wagons, arrived on the scene. Endless questions, taking records of damage, searching for evidence, etcetera: wearisome and even more meaningless. Speaking with authorities who could not help, coming to aid too late, valuable time had been lost already.

Nadir watched powerless, torn in sympathies between Raoul hunched over and his shaky hands and Erik, stern and lost in his mind behind an empty stare. Not only would it be a long, but a lonely road for him. The worst possible things were imagined. A slight redness tinged his eyes, still aching from it.

"Did the police find the key?" questioned the Persian.

"No," said Raoul. "Philippe used to carry his own set of keys, just like the housekeeper. After he died, I saw no reason for keeping them all, but I did save the vault key."

"Why didn't you have it deposited in the bank? Or better, move all your family's collection into a bank?"

"Our father and Philippe did not care for the idea of entrusting them to the bank. That's why this vault had been installed in the house. Before it was Philippe's room, it was my father's. Though frankly, M. Khan, they could've been safely secured in the bank or buried on a desert island; they have Christine."

"Don't blame yourself, my boy. You couldn't have possibly foreseen it."

". . . M. Khan?"

The older man swallowed a little too fast on his next sip, and coughed. "Yes?"

"Did you foresee it?"

". . . I did you great wrong, Raoul, I admit it. I didn't tell you because I had been deceived."

"Did you know her, though? Perrin is not her real name. It was one of the many things I'd been apprised of when dragged up to the room."

"Yes, I knew," sighed the Persian.

"Avril Chasseur. . . One of the most notorious female criminals of France." Disbelief had him shaking his head. Erik's eyes had fallen closed to hear her name again. "I can't believe I didn't think to make any check on her history and references-"

"Well, don't feel too ashamed. You weren't solely duped by a woman. She had many friends, and how were you to know that a reputable police officer would be the one to plan it all? That won't sit too well with M. Faure, I guarantee."

"Why didn't you say anything before, M. Khan?" Instead of anger, it was a tone of defeat. "You might've prevented it all."

"For several reasons. I knew, going to the police, I'd be drawing Boldvieu's attention. The girl had revealed a few secrets to us, about their past and these plans for your engagement ball; airing that kind of information might've brought her trouble. . . Also, I had hoped that. . . well, we hoped, that the girl might have a change of heart. She didn't seem keen about doing it. It appeared to us that Bertrand had some hold on her. Unfortunately, we'd believed her."

"Unfortunately," sighing again, half a yawn and half a groan. A hand reached back behind his disheveled hairline, rubbing a fresh bruise growing between his shoulder blades below the neck. Soot dusted heavily across the shoulders and arms, making a pristine white shirt a pitiful gray. The coat, beyond hope of recovery with its seams and burn patches, hung on one of hooks at the door.

Darius entered on light, shuffling feet, delivering a modest tray of food before his master's company. The fare consisting of a few silences of day-old bread, a saucer with dates, and three cups of a flavorless tea. Once scalding, the partaker was unable to detect a flavor.

"Thank you, Darius," he nodded at his servant.

"Can I do anything else, master?"

"I don't think so."

Neither of his houseguests seemed disposed to any refreshment other than the hard liquor already in hand. Cognac was the only thing keeping peace between the two. All heartfelt sentiments about each other was taken out vindictively in the swallows to pass.

"Do we have any clue where they might be going?" asked Raoul.

"Presumably, they'll be leaving the country. But they'd have to beat the wires, as police officials and border patrol will be on the watch for them. In their position, the most sensible thing to do is lay low until the dust settles. Don't think we need to worry about that just yet, and they wouldn't dare tempt it with a hostage."

"And you, have you any opinion?" Raoul asked of Erik, still numb and detached from the world. His eyes did not move from their long gaze.

"No."

"I was of the opinion you knew her best between the two of you."

"Raoul," warned Nadir, "it would be unwise to peruse into that."

"They'd likely go somewhere isolated," guessed Raoul. "A small town in the country might suit their needs for the time being."

"Nobody got a look of the runaway carriage. If they were heading for the coast, logically, they'd be running north."

"Calais?"

"It's a step and skip to England once on board a boat."

"Might I offer a reward? It would raise the public's interest finding them."

"You don't need to ask permission, Raoul. I'm sure it would help."

"Maybe, unless it might make it worse off for Christine."

"Usually, in these circumstances-which I know from my legal service in Persia-it's not in the captor's interest to harm the hostage. So long as they aren't threatened, and do anything rash-"

"M. Khan, please!" groaned Raoul. "I don't want to think about it. They're mercenaries. Greedy, cold-blooded mercenaries. Whatever their intentions are, it's not reassuring."

"Then why don't you pour yourself some more cognac, and you'll feel better."

Endurance at its end, Erik rose from his own seat. Darius had always been preferable company in a foul mood, speaking little himself and willing to pour another serving from the decanter. But even better was having the dining parlor all to himself. Erik took the first empty chair, one among five. Although, his good friend had neither friends or close friends besides himself to number five. And none of these friends would ever sit down to a whole meal at the same time.

Of course, Nadir never left him alone two minutes in one room by himself. The man soon hovered overhead. Kind remarks, a mild scolding, and rousing speech about looking to the future was being prepared. Oh, to be deaf, to be blind-if it would only erase the images of her, to forget, even cease to think. The same condition as being dead.

"You going to be alright?"

No reply.

"Erik, I. . . I really am sorry. Truly. . . It's a shame you of all men had to be put through that. But. . . Well, before I say anything else, I want you to know that I would've been very happy for you, Erik. For a moment, I was; wouldn't have objected in the least. . . But don't let it weigh too much on you. It was terrible what she did, Erik. A worthless girl shouldn't have the satisfaction of causing this much misery."

His chin came to rest on his knuckles, his body slumping sideways. After the initial events from an hour or so ago, Erik's inhales and exhales were long and even once again.

"Have to say I'm surprised you kept your temper when she faced you," he confessed. "I'm not like you, but I think I could see myself throwing her a good punch. And maybe tie her to the nearest tree and give her a good lashing every inch of her backside." His attempt of humor did nothing to Erik's facial expression. "Can't say that I don't feel sorry for her, because I do. Bad people shaped her into what she is, but still, it's not right and it's not fair."

"Erik knows what she is, Daroga," he grumbled. "You needn't elaborate all her fine points for Erik's benefit. He was misled, like everyone else. For the first time, and probably the last, someone has actually conned the Phantom himself. It's not as though Erik deserves anything good, or ever will."

"But she didn't deserve you," he affirmed, nudging his friend in the shoulder. To Erik's right, he slipped leisurely into his own chair. "Care to talk about it?"

"Mind your own business, Daroga," he spat.

"I'm so sorry, too, that I could not have known her better. If I did, maybe I could've picked up some more subtle things about-"

"You barely knew her; she wanted it that way. She never opened up to you."

"I know," nodded the Persian.

". . . Erik was remembering a few nights ago, being with her right after she got the news about her sister. Maybe everything else was apart of the ruse, but that had been real. Those tears were real. . . Erik even saw Avril, watching a poor, little beggar child in the street. And though not charitable herself, she doled a generous little sum. . . Thad had been real."

"Of course, you were watching her; she had an audience. Perhaps Avril was playing up the part. After all, she wanted us both to feel sorry for her. And I, stupidly and naively, kept all her secrets to myself. I should've turned them all in when I had the chance."

"Honestly, Daroga, your efforts would've been to no avail."

The gust and howl of the wind almost made it impossible to distinguish the ringing doorbell. It raised the hair down his arms at the thought of more gendarmes coming to question him. Strangely enough, none of the officials on duty that came on the scene at de Chagny's ball had considering arresting him. Perhaps the charges Bertrand had pressed were dropped. And now knowing Bertrand for his real self, the police were not going to give his pursuits credit any longer. Nonetheless, a visitor at this hour was always unsettling.

"You may have to hide in my bedroom if Darius must admit him," warned the Persian.

"There's no reason you can't send him packing," retorted Erik.

"At least, it's nice to be back in my own house again. Don't have to worry about the police for the time being. And that, even, Avril had me dodging the gendarmes and running like a fugitive. . . I suppose that was kind of her. But if I had been caught and arrested, I'd have been questioned. And I'd have to tell the police everything I know about her and the rest of those thieves. It was more to her advantage than anything. . ."

Nadir calculated it would take at least ten seconds between Darius answering the door, getting the message, and coming to inform them of the visitor. As expected, he appeared, but with a most bewildered expression.

"Who is it, Darius?" he asked.

"Master, there are two young ladies at the door. They look like lost travelers or from the street. They wish to come in. Shall I show them in?"

"Two ladies?" mumbled the Persian. "They give their names?"

"Didn't get a chance. Although. . . they did ask to see M. Erik." This raised both their heads and eyes to the middle-aged man. "Of course, I didn't say he was here, but the one seemed rather desperate. She looks very ill-"

"Melicent," answered Erik.

"Shall I-?"

"Ah, yes do, Darius!" agreed Nadir. "Show them in."

Just the night before, out riding in the country with the two elder sisters, Erik hardly recognized Melicent now. Her gaunt frame had been racked with tremors, braving the chilly northern winds. Estelle hardly looked any better, with her hair strewn and whipped about the shoulders. Both faces ashen. Melicent had no benefit from wearing the gloves.

"Forgive this intrusion, monsieurs," Melicent sputtered.

"Good heaven, child!" cried Nadir. "It's late, and cold out!"

"I tried to keep her home," sighed Estelle. Standing just behind with an arm round behind her older sister's back, the younger had been left haggard.

"Monsieur. . . Erik," Melicent's voice wavered weakly, "we. . . we need to talk."

"Who are you?" Raoul asked. In the one, even the both, there was some vague resemblance. Family resemblance.

"M. le Comte, this is Melicent and Estelle Chasseur," Nadir introduced.

"Chasseur? You are-"

"Yes, they are," he cut off, stopping him from proceeding further. No details. "Yes."

"You are Avril's sisters?"

"I take it from the way you speak, you're not an admirer of hers. . . Or are you?" leered Estelle.

"Essie, please. I asked you let me do the talking. . . Erik, has something happened tonight?" The irony of Delilah having a sister so meek it practically nullified their blood relation. Innocent eyes begged to his cold, glowing ones. "I get the terrible feeling that something may have gone horribly wrong."

"Why do you say that? Did your sister mention anything?" asked the Persian. Was it possible. . . ? But what exactly? Avril's career and private life remained a dead secret, save a handful of confidants.

"No, I'm afraid not."

"Please, will you sit down, Melicent? No, by the fire here, and warm yourself."

All men withheld their tide of inquiries, either too shocked or otherwise baffled. For she was the very reason that Erik did not hold her sister in thorough contempt. This creature had been the object of affection, of the most tender care and devotion. Being forced to reveal herself and confess all her life's sin before this unpretentious child of eighteen, in almost every way her inferior, had distressed Avril more than anything. It had been selfish, but could one blame her for it? Someone in the great, wide world thought Avril to be great, even holding her dear. That same heartless soul howled in despair at the prospect of losing her. So, to preserve good esteem, of course, she hid and deceived and painted herself in a prettier way for the benefit of this poor, naïve mind.

"You needn't hide anything from me," said Melicent.

"What do you mean?" Erik uttered nervously.

"Please, don't feel you have to hide the truth for my sake. I love her, and shall always love her. . . Always."

* * *

The winds only grew worse. Farther and farther across the countryside, the fury in them kept people inside their houses, and their farm animals inside the stables. And to add, it was cold. It was summer dying a painful, hypothermic death. It all but drowned out the sounds of a reckless carriage barreling headlong through the darkness. Over rough, gravely highway, debris from trees blown over, and other things taken by the wind, it proceeded uninhibited.

At first, it raced along at a nauseatingly, dangerous pace. Eventually, their driver graciously allowed the horses their breath, slowing down to a trot. They never stopped, and would not be stopped for many miles. Only once forced to change horses did they stop at a remote livery inn. All passengers, except one, kept to themselves and out of everyone's way. No one took refreshment at their stops.

Their destination was reached in a day and a half. This would've made taking the train a more desirable conveyance. Exhausted and aching from frayed nerves, everyone treated her ill-temperedly and remorselessly. Not one of them was without a pistol, which stayed visible at all times. They'd not been pointed in her direction yet, but just their presence alone instilled one's respect and obedience.

Over that time, Christine grew familiar and memorized each face. Gone were their party masks. Evening attire had creased irreparably, particularly the older woman's striking red gown. Her face, framed by a constant cynical remark beneath the curl of a smirk. Whenever the Russian feigned gracious manners and tried to be sweet, Christine's head angled completely the opposite of him. The young man would light a cigarette, and blow clouds before her face, amused when she choked on it. Despite this, her traveling companions proved tolerable.

Where they decidedly arrived at, the house was obviously unoccupied. Slip covers veiled all the furniture with each passing room. Dusty, neglected, and too peaceful that their voices echoed in the long hallways. It seemed fit to be housed by a richer family, one that would live here during the summer to enjoy the sea. It was visible from her chosen confinement. The curtains were never drawn, and no window opened. It couldn't be risked were her kidnappers to attract attention. But the dull roar throughout the tedious, unsocial hours comforted her. Old memories, precious and pleasant, entertained her mind, all of them from her father, to Mme. Valèrius, to the Opera, from Raoul to Erik. . .

Footsteps approached outside, and as always, nobody knocked before unlocking the door. Bertrand played the humble servant this time, bearing a tray in both hands. Perfectly gentleman, he laid it by the nightstand, a couple feet from where she sat on the bed. As the walls and a locking door served as her boundary, fortunately, he'd not thought it being tied or chained to a chair as necessary. Captivity, for as much a hostage could wish for, was not uncomfortable. Christine acknowledged him with a nod.

"I want every morsel eaten next time I come back," said Bertrand. His voice kind and caring. "You're not shocked, are you? It's not good to starve when you're shocked. Nobody is going to hurt you, Miss Daaé."

"Please, monsieur, I just wish to be left alone," Christine entreated politely.

". . . No change, then?" said Bertrand.

"That's all she says," shrugged Gaspar. Reclined half way back in a chair, with both heels balancing him against the antique vanity table, disinterest had nearly put him to sleep. "She refuses to talk. She must have a problem with us."

"Although, with you for company, I wouldn't blame her," retorted Bertrand. "Is there any ham leftover downstairs?"

"A whole pan. You hungry?"

"Very. But if you don't mind, Bertrand, send up someone to take my place? I'd like a few hours to shut my eyes."

"Very well," he conceded. "Have Avril come up."

It had been her, on that night, to escort Christine down and out to the carriage. Those hands she'd trusted all her cares, notes, dresses in good faith held her by the wrist clenching. Unlike the rest, only interested in her worth, this was personal. She should've liked to refuse, but Bertrand would not have abided her wish. Soon enough, her former maid entered.

Once it came time for the raid, her attire changed most drastically. It would seem that the woman had changed quickly, and it surprised Christine how adaptable she'd made her dress. One hard tug in just the right place, she'd stripped her skirt and petticoat. Even the hoop cage came undone with uncanny ease. Beneath she sported a pair of beige trousers, which tucked into footwear that everyone had thought was a dance slipper. With the shining pistol strapped to her thigh, she used it to keep Raoul pinned in a corner. All the while with a smile shaping the lip.

At this early hour in the morning, she did not smile. The sliver of light coming from the curtain shone a beautiful gold. Sunrise. For a minute, Avril paid them no mind. Instead, her face was poking out a west-facing window.

"It's still blustery," she announced. "And it's clear now. Though we might have a storm come nightfall."

"Made it just in time then," agreed Bertrand.

Eventually, with no other choice, Avril's eyes flitted towards Christine on the bed. Both arms had crossed in front of her. All pins and hair decoration put up with painstaking labor had fallen out by now. She still wore her ball gown, but it had been on too long a journey. Sweat showed up around the décolletage and slight tears around the hemline. Her petticoat and dance slippers still showed a little dirt from the gardens, when she'd escaped the house to meet with Erik. It drew their attention, and as complications arose, a lone young woman was easy prey.

"You not hungry?" asked Avril. "I cooked it all myself."

"No, I'm not hungry," sighed Christine.

"Suit yourself. When is Vérène coming back? I can't take this corset for much longer."

"Why don't you just loosen it?"

"I can breathe, but I can hardly bend forward or anything. It's my back," groaned Avril, twisting around in hopes to massage the pain.

"There's a bath room down the hall. Would you like a soak for a while?"

She shrugged. "That would be nice."

"Just stay and watch her for a few minutes, will you?" Taking her acceptance, the man leaned and tapped his lips against hers. Apparently, all had been forgiven. Revolted, Christine's eyes rolled as they turned away. Bertrand routinely locked door once it closed. However displeasing this situation, Christine could not help herself. Her pain too much to keep to herself.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked, despairingly. "I don't believe you wanted this. Please, if you'll just let me go, I'll see to it that you're rewarded. Whatever you ask for-"

"Ransom money is worth holding out for, my dear," replied Avril. "Usually is worth a lot more than a bribe."

"Mlle. Chasseur, I had hoped that, with the relationship we had back in Paris, that you might reconsider. You can keep the necklace and the earrings I'm wearing now," Christine proposed, touching a hand to where the pendants hung. "Take them, if only you'll let me go."

"Do you not understand? You're not going anywhere, and that relationship was all a front, in case you haven't figured it out. Someone had to be working on your fiancé's estate to discover the vault. It's a shame we didn't have the key to get in; you'd be home where you belong. . . and maybe even married by now."

It had been a long time since color was in Christine's cheek. An indignant flush of pink that Avril just barely contained a laugh.

"So you really would've married him?" jeered Avril. "You changed your mind so many times I've lost count."

"How could you? He probably thought that I didn't want to see him. I waited and waited out there in the woods, and no sign of him," huffed Christine. "Had no idea it was a trap-"

"Well, I'm sure he'll forgive you for not keeping an appointment. You had a good excuse," shrugged Avril. But coldly rejoined: "I'm sure you'll be welcomed by open arms, by both of your suitors." Pulling the vanity stool forward, Avril seated with her legs crossed out in front of her. A hand planted at each side of her. "If that's what worries you, I think you may rest easy now. Have a few sips of tea?"

". . ."

"You don't have to abstain from the food we give you just because you hate me."

". . . I don't hate you."

"Oh, you don't? Well, I don't care. But don't you dare talk any nonsense how you feel sorry for me, for people like me, and how pitiful we are because of the lives we've led and the crimes we've commit. Nobody buys that."

"Then I won't talk about it," resigned Christine. "But I do feel sorry for you. You can't tell me how to feel, Mlle. Chasseur."

Her eyes rolled. "Christine, this is not tea in the parlor or anything like that. There's no need for us to bother about manners. My name is Avril."

Neither spoke for some minutes after. The cunning one supposed, triumphantly, that the hostage had lost her spirit now, along with all will to converse. Although Avril had expected some of this kind of dialogue, Christine had surprised her with her next question. 'How could you possibly do this?' 'Why are you doing this to me?' 'Why do you hate good people to do such things?' No.

"Tell me, Avril," her throat clearing, "how is it you came to meet Erik?"

"By accident," she answered curtly.

"As you did pass notes to me from him, I take it you and he did have some sort of communication." _Now there's a word for it_, Avril mused. "Did he not know about you?"

"That I am a thief? Of course, he knew. My first night in the house, even. He caught me trying to steal some jewelry from your room. You know that black ribbon with the red pendant? I thought it was pretty. And he threatened me with eviction or exposé. Wouldn't have had any choice, but of course, I knew his secret. He would do anything to have you back in his arms and have you love him. In turn, I offered to act as his page. Whatever he wished done, I did it. I did not give him away for writing you and meeting with you. In return, he would be silent about my identity and our plans for the raid."

". . ."

"I'm sorry if this has lowered your high opinion of your dark knight. I just tell you how it was, and it was not beneath _him _to take a bribe."

"I don't care!" Christine's fist thumped against the bedding. Her lungs heaved a little faster as well. "I don't care what you say. And I don't believe it. Even if it is the truth, I don't see what Erik did as base as the things you've done. He would be ashamed of his actions, but not you."

"You're right about that."

"But I warn you, Avril, if he comes after me, he won't rest until he takes his revenge. That's just in his nature, which I have no control over. So, once he finds me, he will seek you all out next, and you'll be at his mercy."

"Such faith!" scoffed Avril. "This is the same man that kidnapped you once before and threatened you, your fiancé, your friends, and many people with death? You couldn't get away from him before, and now, you're dying to return. . . Oh, yes, I knew about him too. The name Christine Daaé will forever be legendary, linked with the Phantom of the Opera."

"I have full faith," spat Christine. "He will find me."

"I don't dispute that. For I know him well enough to know he can exceed the average man's abilities. Does his ability to love outdo every other man as well?"

"Of course!"

"Did he ever kiss you? or say he loved you?"

"All the time. . . I mean, he said it all the time. He is shy, but he has kissed me. . . on the forehead-"

"So he never kissed you," she laughed. "So he said he loved you. Did he? Well?"

"I don't wish to discuss it anymore. And I will not hear him belittled by someone who cannot understand or is incapable of love themselves."

Thankfully, having said that much, Christine stood from the bed until she stood alone in the middle of the room. For the thousandth time, a hand raked through her untidy curls. All hope of rescue depended on someone as strong, as smart, and as capable as Erik. Raoul would probably only get so far. Last time, he required the aid of the Persian. And their rescue attempt had been fruitless; it had been her vows and pleading that rescued them. Yet, Christine would've willingly relived that nightmare over again.

Angry strides came from behind. A gloved hand grabbed her at the shoulder, spinning her round to see Avril, fiery and livid.

"If you talk like that, I strongly suggest you keep your mouth shut," snarled Avril. "You know nothing of true love. Try loving two people like my sisters: one on her deathbed, and the other a chit that eats the bread provided her but deigns the money that buys it. You know nothing, and will know nothing until you learn to love and get nothing out of it. . . And if you go spouting off like that again, I'll put you in a chair. You understand?"

Christine breathed evenly after a moment, level-headed again. With a wordless nod, it satisfied Avril's demand. Bertrand returned not long later, bringing a change of clothes and to say her bath was waiting, relieving both women of each other's presence.

**So, what did you make of it? Poor Erik, has he lost everything? You think Melicent really knows about Avril? Who do you pity more, Christine or Avril? Do you like their argument, and justified in what they said to each other?**

**I'll try not to do the same thing: holding my updates hostage in exchange for so many reviews;) But the more, the faster they will come. The sun will rise come next chapter.**


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